By the third day of the sixth month, I could carry a full cup across my room without planning the route first.
I celebrated by spilling some on the timetable.
Recovery remained a modest occupation.
I lifted the cup, looked at the wet corner of the sheet and decided the room didn't need to hear my opinion.
The ink had blurred around the time of my next appointment. Of course it had chosen the useful part. I blotted it with a spare cloth and tried to work out whether the last mark had been a three or a five.
Five would have given me more time.
I checked the copy underneath.
Three.
Well, that settled it. I finished the drink over the washbasin.
The Hall had kept me off active output while the strain settled. No new crossing, no clever test of Nihil, no attempt to prove that refusing a duel had left me ready for something equally irritating under a different name. Walking and limited footwork continued. The right hand stayed supported.
