Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. Sheppard. He left the room, presumably to sleep elsewhere, but the only other room with a fire was the servant’s quarters. Capes had the gift of easy, unaffected writing, coupled with very clear and logical thinking, and to follow his written thought gave her the sensation of cutting things with a perfectly new, perfectly sharp knife. “I suppose you could at least tune it for us if you know how to play. We come out into the world, some of us—” She paused.
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