She was at the gate when he arrived.
Not waiting — standing. The specific quality of someone who had been there long enough to be comfortable but had not been there long enough to sit. Cassandra at the training ground gate, in the early morning, before the lamp in the supply office had done its work.
He had not seen her since the night before the Mycenaean ship arrived. Three weeks.
'She always knows when to come,' he thought. 'I have never figured out if that is the gift or something separate from it.'
He kept walking toward the gate. She watched him come with the particular attention she brought to things she had been thinking about for a while and had decided it was time to say.
He opened the gate.
He said: "Come in."
She came into the training ground and stood at the edge of the practice marks. She looked at them the way she sometimes looked at things that were records of something — not the marks themselves, what the marks said about the accumulation of mornings.
