Vellum

She had not spoken for an hour, and Corin had counted it.

Not in minutes. He had no way to count minutes. He counted the things he counted anyway, because his hands and eyes went on doing their work whether or not the rest of him was fit for it: the fire, fed twice; the river, down an inch on the stone he had marked; the mule, asleep on his feet; the ways into the camp, three; the ways out, two. Her hands. Her hands had not moved from her knees.

She sat inside both coats with her feet to the fire and the case open beside her, and she looked at the flames, and did not look at him, and did not say anything at all.

He had told it in order and it had come out in order and now it was on the ground between them like…