The founding board had new names.
He read them every morning in passing on the way to the first lecture, the same way he read everything that was fixed in his environment — completely, once, without slowing his stride. The clean institutional script. The iron lettering. The names that had been added three days after the attack with the flat thoroughness of a system that recorded significant events because recording them was what gave them permanence in the institutional sense, which was a different thing from the personal sense but was not nothing.
He had stopped counting how many times he had read the board. At some point it had become part of the corridor the way the corridor's stone was part of the corridor, present and known and not requiring the specific conscious attention of a new thing.
Rowan's name was between two Wardens.
He read it and kept walking.
Thorne's hall at the eighth hour.
