216

Chlora's master sacrificed another of her finger joints the night before, and she wasn't feeling well enough by the morning to stir the fire and make breakfast.  She cradled her truncated hands to her chest, curled on her straw in the corner of the master's workshop.  The demon breathed heavily in the middle of the room, within the protective circle.  Undoubtedly, the master was still sleeping in his feather bed, waiting Chlora's call for the morning meal.  She knew if he woke on his own before she rang the silver bell, she would pay with bruises and maybe even bones.

215

The slate floor was cold and unforgiving to bones and angles.  Hipbones and shoulder bones and the sides of knees and ankles in particular.  It tasted of cool minerals.  Sari had tasted three full rectangles of slate from grout to grout.  The last one tasted of iron, but she had started her tasting and didn't like to leave one only partially done.

214

I just saved a picture of Spalding Gray to my computer.  In it, you see his head, floating in small waves, his body just a blur below him.  His eyes are closed.  A wave splashes with white foam behind, breaking around his head like a high collar.  The large rocks in the distance look exotic, and since I just finished reading Swimming to Cambodia, I imagine it's the exotic Indian Ocean while he's filming The Killing Fields.  He looks peaceful.  I wanted to save that part, the peaceful part.  The part where Spalding Gray is one with the ocean and the world and his pain is gone and his doubt is gone and he is one, the Zen master, at peace.

213

Gods, I was hoping my eyesight wouldn't give out completely before I ever had a chance to see the world, even a small part of the world.  I pressed my cool fingers to my eyelids and willed them to rest.  Rest and clear the blur and the dry and the wavering focus that I feared would someday not leave.  A complete night's rest would be good, though it wasn't going to happen as long as Master Grieg wanted all his spells copied within a week.

I blinked at the bleary ink, hoping I hadn't ruined another spell by getting sloppy.  Sloppy spells weren't merely irritating to wizards; they were deadly.  Though Master Grieg could be mean and stubborn and uncaring and unwilling to listen and hurtful, I didn't want him dead.  Much.

212

The beach sand was hot, and usually crowded nearest the lake.  Up higher, however, there was a narrow, sandy path between the clusters of sharp grass to an oasis of bright, clean sand.  It had a view of the lake and the mountains beyond, and it was angled so the throng of regular beach-goers weren't visible.  You could barely even hear them if you lie down on your beach towel.  But is was very hot, and lying up there for too long would make you sweat, so the best solution, nine-year-old Peri found, was to walk carefully from your oasis to the main path and take a long run straight into the cold, mountain lake.  Best to yell when you got close to the others at the beach so they stayed out of your way.  Run into the water, legs pumping higher as the water slowed you down, finally flopping in a semi-dive to soak your heated shoulders and hair, letting the silence of the water fill your ears, feeling the sun's heat triumphed by the water's cool embrace.