I can hear them from the scullery. Every now and then one stands up and orates at length to the unfortunate crowd, after which he bows to their scattered applause. Personally, I think they’d be better served by plates broken over their heads than by hand-claps. And if I’m correct, more than a few of their recent verses make mockery at my House’s expense. Crakes—always biting the hand that feeds. Ilven used to tell me that my hatred of poetry and poets had more to do with being forced to study under our House crake than with the actual quality of the verse, and that one day I would see the beauty in what they did. Somehow I doubt that. “Firell?” A head pops around the doorway. It’s the day-shift waitress, a low-Lam girl everyone calls Perkins. She has a narrow nose in a moonish face, and her eyes are wide and dark as winter storms. “Yes?” “Can you pick up a table for me? Charl has all the outside tables so he’s too busy.” Of course he’s busy. It’s market day, and the place is packed from floor to wall.
What do You think about When The Sea Is Rising Red?
