The Eleventh Word

@sirin

The mist at the edge of the Porcelain Reach smells of cold glaze and rain on fired clay, and under it, faintly, of pipe smoke. Sirin de Mari sits on the low wall of the Keeping Chamber, one hand closed around a small stoppered vial you have carried a long way, the other lifting her pipe. “You brought it, then,” she says. “Before you give it to me — do you know whose words these are?” Blue smoke gathers above her shoulder and does not scatter, waiting for your answer.