Mara had set nine places.
Vane counted them when he came into the kitchen. Nine bowls at the table, nine cups beside them, the arrangement she used when she wanted everyone to be able to see everyone else — not a long formal table but the round configuration she pulled for when the number was right for it. The eastern spice blend was running at its full proportion, which meant she had been cooking since the fourth hour. The lamp on the windowsill was at its warmest setting.
He looked at the nine places.
He looked at Mara.
She was at the counter with the accounts ledger, pen moving in its precise columns. She did not look up.
"Nine," he said.
"Yes," she said.
He looked at the table. He looked at the window where the December garden was dark and the bird was on his wall and the last night before the island emptied was doing what last nights did, which was arrive the same way every other night arrived and mean something different.
He went to set the fire.
