Sana went up the ridge before light, the way she had gone every winter morning since the year her mother’s hands failed. The path was frozen in the ruts the salt carts left, and each rut held a thin lens of ice that broke like a held breath.
She was not going up to open it. She wanted to be clear about that afterward, when the questions came, and they would come — the Warden would send someone with a ledger and a mild voice, and she would have to say what she had intended.
The shape in the wall stood two spans taller than a man and was the colour of wet slate. Frost gathered on it in patterns that were not the patterns frost makes.
Sana put her palm flat against the stone, because that is what one does, because her grandfather had done it and his mother before him, and because the cold of it was famous and she wanted, once, to feel something famous.
It was warm.
For a long moment she did not take her hand away. She thought about the salt in her coat pocket and the ledger and the mild voice, and about the twelve winters her family had counted since anyone last claimed the stone had moved.
Then the frost on the shape began, very slowly, to run.
Down in the village, Idren was arguing about fish. He had the good end of the argument and no interest at all in winning it, which is a luxury, and he was enjoying the luxury when the bell on the ridge rang once and stopped.