The first signal that something was odd struck at lunch: her arrival coincided with a hundred covered mouths and a few pairs of pink cheeks. Mietatte stood still, framed by the tapering arch of the masterfully carved doorway, her eyes trailing over the sea of white in the Novice Dining Hall. Not one pair of eyes would meet hers, and it was with fearful consternation that she stepped from the doorway, over the lintel, and toward the tables, her arms laden with books and her heart in her throat. They were staring at her still, and although she did not know why, she could not believe it was for the best. She was careful to look at no one as she gathered her plate and cup on a tray, her hands shaking: by the time she was ready for a seat, she was sure it had all been her imagination.

Except, the Novices had cleared away one table: it was hard to rate your own table. The halls were not crowded with Novices, and it wasn’t impossible or improbable – or even uncommon – that she should sit alone, but the table had been full a moment before. She glanced about, hunting for some reason why, but all the conversation in the room was taking place behind hands, or with faces turned away – what was the secret? She took a bite of tasteless food, frowning, and turned back to her tabletop: the snowy linen said nothing. Even if it had, she wouldn’t hear it.

This was just the latest in a string of disquieting events: the letter she’d slaved over for Keille Sedai was missing, and the woman had been waiting to take her Novices to task: no dreamy eyes today. She’d escaped licking her wounds – figuratively!- but those rumors about bloody whippings at Keille’s tiny office were dancing luridly in her mind. She knew she’d been whipped before, but the better she behaved here, the better her chance of remaining, and she couldn’t face the world outside the Tower. She didn’t know enough, and she would never be safe. Never again. The men were waiting, their broken teeth leering, their stinking breath whistling. She shuddered, and turned her attention to her food, picking restlessly at something that vaguely resembled slices of pork with raisins, never a favorite because of the thick, waxy fattiness of the meat. Mia ate little at the best of times: her habit was to indulge at breakfast, and abstain from luncheon and dinner. However, the Aes Sedai had commandeered her at breakfast, and she was very hungry. The food still didn’t appeal, but she ate it steadily nonetheless: anything would fill her.

She faced the wall, ignoring the long windows: seats by the windows were coveted. She’d never had one. Mina glided by her, her dark curls flapping like raven’s wings, and Mia caught the ghost of a smile on her roommate’s mobile mouth before she returned her gaze to her white plate. White linens, white china, white napkins, white gowns: the room seemed a funereal bier, but all the women in it were of an age to be clothed in bridal white instead of funeral white. At least, they seemed to be: some of them were more than fifty years old, a fact that never failed to amaze her. Never beautiful, she would also never be old: was that the definition of irony? She felt it must be.

Turning her head, she noted that Mina sat at the window: she took the seat saved for her by her trio of friends with a laugh as she proffered something white and square. Immediately, Mietatte knew what it was: it was her vanished letter. Pink rose in her cheeks as she stood abruptly, and she could feel the eyes on her: every head had turned her way, and all eyes were on her. They were waiting for her to run, she was sure, but they would be waiting in vain. Mia might be a mouse, but even mice bit and clawed when the cat trapped them in the corner. This was not her corner – larger battles awaited – but this was still a reason to demand what was hers. She crossed the room with her head held high, stopping before the other Cairhienin woman with her hand extended.

“Give that to me, you thieving sow,” Mietatte hissed, snatching the paper from her fingers. Perhaps shocked by the insult, Mina let it go: Mia gathered it up, not caring that her fingers were marring the careful script of her lovingly written letter. Without a downward glance, she continued by the window table, shaking with rage. There was no chance now, that Sora would not hear of this, and the last thing he likely needed was to remind the Aes Sedai that he’d once had responsibility for her. All of her mistakes would reflect so badly on him! Her slow learning, her quick temper: how must she be affecting his chances of becoming an Aes Sedai himself? Furious, she headed rapidly for the Great Library, determined to show Keille Sedai that she had been telling the truth when she had had to declare the assignment lost. She had written her letter, and she deserved a grade in the Brown sister’s large ledger.

Her careful nature made her pause before she knocked on the sister’s door to turn in her assignment: dubious eyes reread her script. What she saw made her want to scream – suddenly, she understood the dining hall silence and the covered whispers. They were as clear as Ebou Dari glass, and as ugly as a Trolloc’s stewpot. A furious flush swept over her face, deepening her milky complexion to an apoplectic carmine. How had they dared? It was a tissue of lies, fierce and filthy suppositions!

And it positively reeked of Mina Carmatheon.

To my dearest Soradrelle, who keeps my heart, she read, her brown eyes displaying her total horror at the notion of a simple letter gone so badly astray. I count the hours that you’re gone. I cannot help but remember all those promises you made me, she continued, her cheeks finding brighter plumage even though she had suspected it impossible for her to blush any redder than she already was. You remember, that day we spent in the Gardens? Oh, he could not help but remember that, she supposed, every time he saw her: she had been dripping blood, half her own, and shaking. She couldn’t quite remember how he had found her, but by the time he had lured her back into the Garden, she had felt a degree of calm. She had heard of terrible tropical storms that had a center of such perfect calm: she had felt that she was one, that day. The aftermath still howled on, but Mietatte could take the nightmares, the residual feeling of panic, the phantom caresses. She had always had those; they were not new.

This rage was new: this terrible, hot hatred was novel. Her urge to rip and hurt and beat was new, and its immensity frightened her. Sitting in Keille’s antechamber, filled to the brim with expensive and rare books and folios, as well as a few of her own fellow peers, Mia grappled that terrible fury and kept reading, every word making her wish she could cringe. It was all wrong, but she could not afford to break the silence. It sounded easy, for Madeline Sedai had said she should come with any of her problems, but if she broke and called for help, she would be judged as inept, unready, unprepared. The Infirmary was a fate almost as terrifying as the world outside the gates: she had to remain in the Tower. Even if she wore plain white for life, she would be grateful. Training her eyes on the page, she forced herself to read a large chunk of the drivel and the malicious lies.

…my love, if I had known then that your absence would pain me so, then I would have followed you! I lay awake at night and cry, and I cry even in my sleep. I cannot forget your touch, your face, your smile. I wish you were here now, for I am so cold at night in my very lonely bed. She gulped at the suggestions that followed that: some filthy mind had detailed sensations that Mia knew nothing of, and the thought of actively pursuing a man merely for his body sickened her. She had turned to Sora because he was not a man: he was going to be Aes Sedai. Aes Sedai were perfect, so far as Mietatte was concerned; if she ever became one, she too would be inviolate, accepted, and revered. Until she was, she tried her utmost to live as one. Her hand clenched the handbook in her pocket, and she flinched.

I dream of your mouth moving over mine and I find that I cannot help but weep…

It was not true. She pushed the filthy words away, but had grasped them again only a second later: she had to see it all. A Healer would excise the abcess and destroy it: she had seen that first-hand. Logically, she must pursue the poison at its source, and she must have at least surveyed the whole, gaping wound before she could continue. Her roving eyes found the place she had left off, and she stared in shock: would this never end? Could she even stand to leave this room, knowing that when she did, she would see tongues wagging over it? Madeline Sedai would be disappointed, and if others caught wind…well, it could mean her expulsion, or Soradrelle’s. Possibly both, but she couldn’t make herself see that as a brightness, or a beginning.

When you return I will shower you with kisses. Hurry back to me.

She turned her head, sickened by this perversion: now she had lost Sora, too. Something bright and sweet, her last slice of a childhood innocence, was dead, and there was not even privacy in which to mourn it.

Corella smirked down at the letter in her hands. She neither knew nor cared who the child who'd penned it might be, nor did she know if it were true. All she did know was that that fool Tira Chakima was going to hate seeing this, and since she couldn't stand the woman another moment, she couldn't wait to see the expression on her face. Who would forget that assembly with that Tinker boy? It was just proof that the horrid creature was a slut of the worst water. She shouldn't even be allowed to be an Accepted, yet there she was, holding court as though she'd come from a decent home.

She read the letter as she walked, secreting it inside the folds of her voluminous cloak. Her eyebrows rose steadily at what was written within: was it possible that anyone would write words so scandalous? Corella's thin lips parted, and she eyed the blonde Accepted's door: Tira could not ignore this. Some little Novice was making time with her...man....not, of course, that Corella thought Soradrelle the least bit manly. With his long golden hair and his bells, he was as effeminate as any of the discernedly...abnormal...men that the Tower boasted. Corella didn't trust any man who spent more time on his hair and clothing than she did, and that took quite a bit of doing.

She paused for a moment, leaning against her nemesis' door, her pen moving easily in the rounded, neat script that the Tower taught its initiates. Leaving her calling-card in the form of a nasty, pointed note, Corella suppressed a giggle and turned from the door, hurrying from the scene of her revenge with a light heart. That would settle the bloody telltale once and for all: not much hurt more than the evidence of a betrayal from the one you last expected to hurt you.

It was nearly time for lights to be quelled as Mietatte settled quietly into a corner, holding a huge tome before her face. The best thing about being a Novice, and dressed all in identical white, was that it lent her an air of invisibility. Although the letter and its supposed truthfulness were the day's hottest topic, Mia herself remained aloof, high above notice. Or below, she supposed: there was some question as to whether she dared show her face in her own room at all. Mina would be there, gloating as she waited, and Mia did not know if she could stand the other woman's bitter scrutiny. What she wanted to do was beat the other Novice, drub her until she cried, but that was not allowed. The Novice Handbook forbade it.

Mietatte was thinking that a few rules might just exist to be broken, but the other Cairhienin woman was nearly a half hand taller and a stone heavier: Mia couldn't win. To lose twice, face and fight, would be worse than to be caught by the Aes Sedai and turned over to Madeline herself, and that was the one thing galvanizing Mietatte to her seat at the moment. Pure fear, thick and coppery in her mouth, had her heart racing under her bodice so that she couldn't concentrate on a single page of the work she held. She didn't even recall the title: she had chosen the book for its size.

She ignored the whisper of steps on rug, although she felt the steady vibration of the measured footfalls through her chair: the less she reacted, the less she was noticed. However, it was impossible to ignore the Accepted, standing in the center of the Novice Common Room and making no secret of her full and burning anger. Mia glanced away, but the woman held her eye: she was brandishing a rather familiar sheet of paper, covered closely in round script. Wishing she could sink through the floor, she nevertheless read the unwelcome words, "Which of you knows where to find the Novice Mietatte?"

Head held high, Tira Chakima glided through the halls of the white tower for all the world as if she were already Aes Sedai. Ever since she learned how to control her dreams, the nightmares had lessened and she was finally sleeping again. It was enough to make her want to skip with glee, but instead she strived as all Accepted do, to emulate those that they wished to become. With the cessation of her night terrors, life had assumed a rather regular, and dull pattern of activity. She'd spent the entire day with a brown sister, helping to catalog pages and pages of the woman's notes on bumblebees. Light! Why would anyone want to spend their entire life studying bumblebees? Shaking her head at the strangeness of some Aes Sedai, she made her way into the Accepted quarters, so that she could get in some extra studying time before bed. As she approached the door to her tiny room, a large white square of parchment caught her eye. What in the light is this? She thought, wondering if perhaps some other Aes Sedai required her assistance. As deep in the brown quarters as she had been, it was no surprise that she couldn't be found. Reaching out a slender hand, she plucked the paper from the door and entered her room.

Once inside, she sighed in relief as she kicked off her slippers. Tira sat down heavily on the bed and crossed her legs, looking at the script on the outside of the note before opening it. What she saw there caused blonde eyebrows to creep nearly to her hairline.

Seems you aren't the only slut who lured him into bed. Perhaps you'll pick your lovers more carefully in the future. But who could blame him for straying, the way you treated him? Perhaps rather than just being choosier, you could pick one and be nicer. We're tired of cleaning up the trail of broken hearts.

The words blared out from the page, accusing and insulting. Who could harbor such hateful feelings? With trembling hands Tira opened the parchment and began to read the contents.

To my dearest Soradrelle, began the missive, written in a round and flowing hand. At the sight of his name, Tira shuddered. She'd come to terms with Soradrelle's death. She'd dreamed of it, and discovering her talent made her all too certain it had been real. Now his name erupted blatantly from the page, daring her to read on. You remember that day spent in the gardens? I remember well the touch of cool grass on my neck, and the warmth of your fingers caressing my skin. I tremble with the memory of your lips against the tender skin of my breasts.

Tira's mind flashed back to a day that seemed a thousand years ago, now. She'd been practically a child when she and Sora had shared passionate kisses and caresses in the secret shadows of the gardens. A thought that occurred to her when she'd listened to Sora give his penance for their transgressions came back to her now. Just how many girls has he been in the gardens with? Apparently she hadn't been the only one, and oh how it made her heart ache. Disgusted with the paper in her hand, yet unable to put it down, she read on…

…my love, if I had known then that your absence would pain me so, then I would have followed you! I lay awake at night and cry, and I cry even in my sleep. I cannot forget your touch, your face, your smile. I wish you were here now, for I am so cold at night in my very lonely bed. I miss your midnight visits, and the pleasure that left me gasping and craving more. But more than that I miss the way you held me close to your heart, and the look in your eyes when you gazed into mine. It always felt like forever, then.

The letter went on in that vein, but Tira could read no more. She did spare a glance at the bottom of the page, her eyes searching for a signature. She found it, and a cold fury crept into her heart.

When you return I will shower you with kisses. Hurry back to me. Your dearest love, Mietatte.

Who was this Mietatte? She must be a novice, for Tira knew all the Accepted and there were none by that name. Blue-green eyes blazed out of a face gone white with anger, making the crescent-moon shaped scar on her cheek stand out in sharp relief. Without even pausing to consider her actions, Tira stood and yanked her slippers back onto her feet. She made it to the novice wing in record time, the letter clutched in her fist. Like a strong wind she blew into the common room, glaring at the white-clad girls scattered about the room. Without preamble she demanded, "Which of you knows where to find the Novice Mietatte?" At least half a dozen girls pointed at a young girl seated in an armchair, a book held up in front of her like a shield. She had Cairhienin features, and long dark hair that fell in ringlets about her face. Fuming, Tira pointed first at the girl, then at the door. "Come with me, now!" She said, her tone brooking no opposition. Large dark eyes peered at her cautiously as Mietatte put down the book and made to go out into the hall. There were a few grins and some snickering, but Tira quelled them with a glare that encompassed the whole room. "If you girls don't have anything else to occupy your time, I'm sure I can find something." It got their attention, and they scattered to the four winds, murmuring about unfinished assignments or the need for sleep. Satisfied, Tira followed Mietatte out into the hallway.

When she found her there, cowering in fear, Tira thought for just the briefest of moments that it might be better just to turn her over to Madeline Sedai and find her own bed. Let the Mistress of Novices do her job and let Tira lead her life as normal. But the words on the page felt as though they were burning her hand, and her fist convulsed on the paper, as though to quell the sensation. She didn't stop to examine the emotions swirling around in her brain, she only acted on them. Thus, she directed her fiery gaze on the novice and said, "I see I've found someone with too much time on her hands." The novice opened her mouth as though to speak, but Tira stopped her with a gesture. "Not only have you committed an act forbidden to Novices, you've had the nerve to write a letter about it. Then to make matters worse, I find this letter pinned to my door!" The child's eyes widened at that, but Tira gave her no quarter. She turned, pacing restlessly in the hallway, no longer able to make herself look into the eyes of the girl that Soradrelle gazed on in love.

She continued pacing, as she asked, "Are you the one who did these things that are written here? Did you write this letter in the hope that it would reach Soradrelle, wherever he is?" Nothing but silence reigned in the hall, and Tira turned to face the girl once more. Now the look on the girls face was one of confusion, and it only fueled her anger to a white, hot rage. "Your precious Soradrelle," Tira spat, her voice so low that no listening ears could have made it out, "Is dead. Dead! He was hanged by Whitecloaks. I'm a Dreamer, and I saw it. So he won't ever get any of your filthy letters." An image flashed in her mind, an image of a child with long blonde hair being ruthlessly kissed by a man at least ten years her senior, with an audience of every Novice and Accepted in the Tower. Punishment for youthful passion in the garden. Now here stood another child, dark where she was fair, who would have to learn the consequences of her actions.

Tira used her height to her advantage, looming over the much smaller Mietatte. She was so angry that her hands shook, and she gripped the sides of her skirt, the letter falling forgotten to the floor. "Since you like to show off your body, this is what you are going to do. You will attend all your classes and kitchen chores wearing nothing but a shift embroidered with the word 'Promiscuous'. And you will stay in the kitchen at night till there isn't a pot or dish left to be scrubbed. Now, get to the tower seamstress and request red thread and needles. You'll need your shift embroidered by morning. The punishment will last one week, and if I find you haven't completed it I'll increase it to two. Now go!"

Tira watched the girl as she scurried down the hall and out of sight, and a sick feeling began to permeate her stomach. She walked back to her room in a daze, and collapsed onto the bed, unable to get the sight of those large, dark eyes out of her mind. What was the matter with her? A few years ago she was a novice herself, playing pranks and having fun where it could be had. When had she turned into such a…prude? Images of her afternoon with Poettre began to intrude and she felt even more guilty. How could I punish that girl for doing something months ago that I did not that long ago myself? She'd never imagined that she had it in her to be so terribly vindictive. It didn't matter now though, what was done was done, and she wouldn't undo it. She could imagine the whispers and furtive looks she would get. They'd call her weak, and they'd be right. Aside from that, she didn't think she could face Mietatte now. It might be foolish pride, but pride was about all she had left.

But what was it that had made her wish to torture the girl so? She was nothing to Tira; but she had been something to Soradrelle. That, she supposed, was the root of it. Jealousy over a man who no longer cared for her, who now was no longer even alive. Should it matter? It really shouldn't, but that fact was that it did. Sora didn't want her, so he found another. Now he was dead, and nothing could change what had happened. She had even thrown herself into the arms of a man she barely knew, perhaps to try and lessen the significance of what she'd had with Sora. It had backfired though, all that had lessened was her opinion of herself. Now, emotionally drained, she put her face into her pillow and wept, about the life Soradrelle had lost before he had a chance to live it, for the humiliation Mietatte would endure over the coming week, and most of all for herself and what she'd become.

The book was a terrible shield: despite its weight and thickness, it could not save her from the pairs of expectant eyes staring at her. She laid it in the chair as the Accepted’s infuriated eyes turned to her, raking her from head to foot like steely claws. In their blue depths, she was weighed, measured, judged, and found sadly lacking. Who was she? Mietatte didn’t need to ask why she had come – that much was apparent. She’d been waiting for someone to come for her all day: surely, something as…juicy…as her obscene letter couldn’t confine itself to just one caste of Tower denizens. It wouldn’t surprise her in the least if the Gaidin themselves were reading it right this instant, but it did shame her. Because she knew what was coming, and because she knew she deserved it, she allowed the nameless Accepted to follow her into the hall, grateful that she’d made the Novice vultures circle away and that she was not Madeline Sedai.

Mia wished for her book back as the blonde woman entered the hallway, her eyes blazing fire. From some random vein came the fact that the hottest fires were blue: now Mia understood why that was. Muscles in the older woman’s arms stood out as she clenched the paper in her fists, and if her body could more clearly express the rage in it, it would have to become a leaping, hissing flame. As it was, Mia took an involuntary step back, into the wall, and felt her body begin to draw in on itself, old instincts acting to preserve her from the worst of a beating. The furious Accepted’s eyes promised pain, and for just one moment, Mietatte thought of her litany of rules. If she had not obeyed them, and if she had shirked just one assignment, then this would be nothing more than a nightmare. Somehow, the irony didn’t appeal to her dry sense of humor, and she was terribly sure that laughter would only make it all worse.

“I see,” the woman said through lips drawn so tightly that they were hard to read, “I’ve found someone with too much free time on her hands.” Mia supposed that this was the point where she said that she could explain everything, and promised that she had never so much thought of Soradrelle in that fashion, so long as the occasional nightmare didn’t count, and swore she’d never do such a thing anyway, but the Accepted silenced her with a curt gesture, forbidding so much as a horrified moan from her throat. Incandescently angry, the woman continued: "Not only have you committed an act forbidden to Novices, you've had the nerve to write a letter about it. Then to make matters worse, I find this letter pinned to my door!" With that, she did the worst thing possible: she turned away from Mietatte. All Mia could do was watch her back, and wonder if she was speaking.

She had been. Or, at least, Mia supposed she had been. So quickly that instinct barely had time to flatten her against the wall and put her arms over her vulnerable head, the Accepted had come back, standing so closely that the scent of her soap made Mia want to vomit. She had used one just like it, that tottering tyrant that Mia should be able to remember in more than snatches: the strong smell of lavender was tied into those blood-red memories of the white-tiled room. Perhaps it was the rictus on her face, or maybe the woman had simply had enough of torturing her: she backed away. Mietatte breathed clean air and watched her lips move, some distant part of her brain nonchalantly translating those silent movements, filling in the sounds she couldn’t see to verify. She preferred the hand language, but most did not know it, and when they didn’t, she made do as best as she could with their lips. She didn’t think she wanted to cross this woman, and she didn’t think that she would humor her by writing the instructions down, even if she had the spittle in her mouth to ask. Mietatte would have to remember.

She doubted that this was something she’d ever manage to forget.

"Your precious Soradrelle,” the Accepted said, flourishing the letter as if it were some magic ticket, "Is dead. Dead! He was hanged by Whitecloaks. I'm a Dreamer, and I saw it. So he won't ever get any of your filthy letters." Dreamer, what does that mean, Mia wondered, staring at the other woman with a face as composed as a statue in alabaster’s. Obviously, it was supposed to be something of great repute, something unmistakable and sure, but it couldn’t be true. If the Whitecloaks had hung Sora, wouldn’t someone know? The Aes Sedai would know: they knew everything. The Accepted had not paused to let Mietatte take in her news, even though the perfect bubble of her complete shock had enveloped her, making her words seem less important than the trail being traced by a droplet of clear water on the faultless windowpane.

Some portion of her brain was working in her favor, though: it made sure the Accepted’s words did not go unheeded. “Since you like to show off your body, this is what you are going to do. You will attend all your classes and kitchen chores wearing nothing but a shift embroidered with the word, “Promiscuous.” And you will stay in the kitchen at night till there isn't a pot or dish left to be scrubbed. Now, get to the tower seamstress and request red thread and needles. You'll need your shift embroidered by morning. The punishment will last one week, and if I find you haven't completed it I'll increase it to two. Now go!"

She had never been one to be called stupid: without stopping to ask any of the questions that plagued her, Mia scurried. She did not pause at all as she raced headlong down the winding, shaking stairs that the Novices were to use in their daily affairs: when she arrived at the seamstress’ tiny cloister, deep in the basements beside the kitchens and the laundry, the tears were indistinguishable from the sweat on her face. Stammering, she sobbed out what she needed, in stages: it took a seamstress and a cup of tea to coax out the whole story. She proudly left out the forged letter: soon enough, everyone would know. For now, though, that filthy thing was hers to bear, and she did not want pity. And could she cry if Soradrelle was dead? The lump in her throat said that she might. Only might cry, for the person who’d coaxed her out from under a table and into the world – only might. She would cry, but she could not cry here, or now.

Some urge shared by all creatures of prey told her that to call attention to herself was tantamount to disaster: if the White Tower did not keep her, then Mia had nowhere else to go. She had been told she came from Cairhien, but the house there was burnt to the ground, and she was the arsonist. Would there not be a sentence for such a crime? Someone had told her that there could be absolution for such sins, but she had not yet learned how. Besides, there was nothing else she could do with her life: she was fated to want advancement but be incapable of promotion. Her lot would be white forever, she knew, but white was safe, and steady. The Tower was the only home she could reliably remember. For that security, she would wear the Accepted’s punishment shift, deserved or not. But first, she had to make it. Focusing on that task, she pitched up hard against a new wrinkle in her manic calm: “I don’t know how to embroider,” Mietatte stated, as a seamstress proffered a hank of red silk and a needle so thin and fine as to seem invisible.

The woman took the goods back, and Mietatte saw pity on her face for just one minute, warring with the urge to be done with her and have the work finished. Steel closed around her throat: this was not the treatment she wanted. She would not weep, and she would not accept favors done merely to facilitate her departure. The woman wanted her gone, but Mietatte couldn’t go: she had things she had to learn and work that must be done. Perhaps her frown told the seamstress so, or perhaps the woman was merely swamped in the endless white garments hanging about, in stages of half-completion: she only paused long enough to draw a square in dressmaker’s chalk and guide Mia in threading the needle. With her finger, pressed under the seamstress’, she held the slippery silk as the first downstroke of a letter “p” appeared. “R” was quick to follow, and by “M,” Mietatte thought she could manage.

The finished garment was ridiculous: the word on her chest was branded in letters like blood. “Promiscuous” indeed: the label burnt the fair skin under the thin-strapped undergarment, as it hung on a bony and childlike frame. The idea of her being so “promiscuous” struck her as ridiculous: what could she do but laugh at herself? What man would touch her? She was as charming to the eye as a straight line, short and without curves. Feeling incredibly stupid, she reached over the seamstress’ table, ignoring the white gown she longed to wear, and fingered a bright silken ribbon of scarlet. It was meant for the bottom trim of an Accepted’s new gown, but it matched the word on her chest. Clumsily, she braided her heavy curtain of dark hair, and fastened it back with the bright bow. If she was going to be punished, and if it had to be for Sora’s sake, then she would do her part bravely, and not hide behind her hair.

Surely, the Accepted would listen: this was all gone too far. The Accepted had to see the humor in all of this: if she had known Soradrelle, and cared for him, then she would have to see that it just couldn’t be true…but she would have to ask later, after her classes. If she didn’t run, she would be late.

Grainy eyes nearly the shade of the bright and foolish ribbon in her hair stared steadily at her instructor’s lips as her pencil fairly flew over the page, making notes in her cryptic shortened words. Today’s lesson was upon axis, and she was surprised to find that she understood, despite the teacher’s constant turning back to her blackboard. She’d been kind enough to write notations as she spoke, giving Mia a chance to learn with her peers: this was her favorite lesson for just this simple kindness. Numbers were constant and absolute, and Mietatte loved them: they always came to a conclusion, never had castes or cliques, and usually made perfect sense. One and one would always be two, for instance, although it was intercourse of a different nature that waggled on her classmates’ tongues and made her instructor gape at Mia’s indecency. Proudly, and stiffly, she arranged her knee-length skirt, pairing her calves under it in her white slippers. At least Tira had not had her go barefoot, to further the image that she had just risen from an illicit bed.

No one asked the question dangling from so many lips, although she felt the stares directed at her back. If they had asked, “So, did you do it,” Mia wasn’t sure how to answer. Accepting the punishment was one dilemma easily solved: it was her responsibility to take any reasonable penance that did not endanger her with death or maiming, and discharge it to her superior’s satisfaction. The Novice Handbook said so, and it was irrefutable. Telling lies was also forbidden by the same Handbook, though, and to say yes or no was to lie. She’d done all those things and likely worse, at one time or another, to Sora, but only in the privacy of her head. Nobody had violated that scanty sanctuary, she prayed. So she deserved no punishment, because she couldn’t be fined for a dream, but another rule in the flaming book told her not to countermand her superiors, and to say that Accepted Tira had made a mistake in punishing her would be to break that rule. She was well and truly speared on her Handbook law, and she did not know how to wriggle off the hook!

Mathematics came to an abrupt end: it always did for Mia. One moment she was making notes of assignment numbers, and the next, she was surrounded by flying elbows and large bags as Novices gained their feet at the ringing of a bell she would never hear. Slipping her own assignments into their own book, where the page would remind her of them later, Mia stood and moved with the herd, ignoring the stares being directed at her from all sides. There was nothing more she could do: she intended to keep her pride. With her lips firmly sealed, she entered her next class, sending a silent prayer heavenward as she slid into a seat. She was inviolate here: any whispering would be severely punished by Kalours Sedai. She taught geography with an iron fist and a pedantic mode that often lulled her entire class to sleep. The promise of peacefulness bolstered Mietatte: she paid especial attention, until the first one landed on her desk.

It was a note: she pulled it into her lap, considering dropping it to the floor unread. In the end, it was the novelty of the experience that caused her to open it: she had never been passed a note before, in class or out. Light, even the note she’d supposedly written hadn’t been passed to her! She had had to take it forcibly from Mina Carmatheon, and if that smug little princess thought Mietatte well and truly beaten this morning, then she had not yet seen what horrid fates awaited her inside Mia’s head. Boiling oil was only a beginning: she wanted to filet the other Cairhienin woman, and then she fully intended to brand the word “traitor” between her rare blue eyes. She had liked the girl because of those eyes: blue was close to green, and green was…She stamped on that thought: just because she was being punished for it didn’t mean she had to want to do it, now did she? She had already learnt her lesson about men.

The piece of paper, hidden in the short folds of her shift, read very simply: “I heard you didn’t do anything, and you should go tell the Mistress of Novices about that horrible busybody Accepted Tira.” So that was the Accepted’s name: their brief encounter hadn’t included any name-giving but her own. Well, now she could find the Accepted by using the directory in their halls, and she would do so as soon as circumstances allowed. Surely, the woman would see that the accusations made no sense, and after a night’s contemplation, she might even agree to punish the real letter-writer, although Mia actually had no proof that it was Delphmina Carmatheon other than the fact that the girl had seen the letter and asked so many questions about Sora. If that didn’t work – but seriously, how could it not work? She would finish one day of this penance before asking to have it erased, and the Accepted would be happy to comply with one who followed the rules so absolutely.

That knowledge kept her from complaining about her lot as more – and mostly unkind – letters filled her lap during the day. Stamping down on one such, which had declared her a freakish whore and Soradrelle something quite nastier, Mia shook her head. There were a few with advice, and it was always the same advice, but Mietatte could not afford to beard Madeline, or even her Assistant, Aiyaela. She suspected that neither had realized what Arla had known from Irian’s interview: that she was deaf, and only to be taught control. She had glimpsed that over the woman’s shoulder as she consulted the file for such mundane information as slipper size and dress waist, and it had rankled in her. How could she be admitted only to be cut loose? She clung adamantly to the image of a safe life in novice whites, but if Arla al’Ramsey had not destroyed her Novice files – and rumor said she had, thus the week before’s short interviews with the Mistresses of Novices – then there was really no chance of that. She was likely the only Novice praying those files were gone: if they were, she stood every chance of surviving in the ranks so long as Madeline or Aiyaela was never allowed to notice her for more than a second.

Of course, she had pictured the chance conversations: the arithmetics teacher who might drop a random comment about the little deaf child, or Kalours herself, griping about the butchery in her spelling and pronunciation of regions’ and cities’ names. So far in this year, none of her teachers had betrayed her: the longer she remained, the more secure she felt. Of course, this letter could change everything, but she knew most of the small sexual scandals of her ilk never reached those lofty ears - disgruntled Accepted and the tattling tongues of peers dealt with those harshly. This un-affair – and with a dead man, too, so not even a chance of a repeat – (or a first, for that matter, either, her brain enjoined even while another part wept at the sound of his name) – would hardly excite the microcosm of the Tower to great lengths for any period of time. Ruthlessly, she pushed the hard knot of tears down, swallowing until it was banished to the acid pits of her empty stomach.

She would not cry. She wouldn’t. Not here, where the beastly Accepted might hear of it, and think herself wise: not here, where Mina could hear of it and think herself clever. She would cry in time, but she would cry alone: she would cry until her eyes bled and her stomach heaved. Reciting the names of major cities in Shienar with the rest of the class eased her mind: Adulah’s Leap, Fal Moran, Fal Dara, Watchtower Hill, Falla Farra, the Absher Hill’s tiny jewel of Carcha. They would find Sora somewhere, she knew, maybe even somewhere she’d heard of: he couldn’t be dead, because the Aes Sedai were still looking. She continued the litany, her heart lightening, her lips moving like her instructor’s, although it was no guarantee that the word would be the same in the end. Sometimes she only did move her lips, but that was rarely, when she was still reasoning out why a “ch” in Cairhien was a k sound and a “ch” in Arad Doman sounded like cheese. If everything sounded just one way when written, she would be happier, but it didn’t, and she couldn’t hope to make that happen.

The day dragged by, most of it cold: before Mietatte was ready to face the Kitchens, lunch and dinner had passed, and it was time that she must appear for the rest of her penance. When she was done here, and her shift clean and presentable, she would go to this Tira and tell her that none of it had been true, couldn’t she see that? The day’s events would count well for her: she had not sought to have the Accepted punished for giving arbitrary penances, after all! The Accepted would help salvage her reputation, what little there was anyway, and save Sora’s at the same time: there was simply no way any man would look at, much less long to touch, Mietatte’s small, uncurved body. It was simply ridiculous.

Swathed in an apron – Laras had insisted, saying that there was “no meat on her bones worth the cloth to cover it up,” but Mia suspected she was merely being kind and saving her an extra penance for the dirtied clothing - she knelt in the hugest pots the Kitchens had to provide, a scraper in one hand and a rag in its counterpart. Washing dishes was not truly a penance for Mietatte: she enjoyed the peace and the quick pace of the work. No one bothered her as she knelt in a pot she herself could be cooked in, and she liked it that way. The number of Novices assigned to kitchen duty tonight made her task light, anyway, although she did make sure she did more than her fair share of the large pots. When the last was cleaned, Mia pulled off the acre of apron to reveal a spotless white shift that still only barely covered her knees.

It was time to see Tira.

She strode the halls without pausing to contemplate the gales of laughter in her wake, busily picking her steps and planning what she might say. The Directory listed a Tira Chakima as living on the fifth floor of the Accepted Galleries, far from Soradrelle’s last address, in the Little Hall where most of the men were gathered. Same-gender segregation was less pronounced for the Accepted, who were permitted to hop beds so long as their studies progressed, but Mietatte saw that as a sign of weakness. Looking at the book gave her questions that she couldn’t answer, though: questions like whose bed Tira Chakima had crawled in to, and whether she’d been promptly booted back out. Maybe she was his lover, and thus her petty ire: honestly, she had only to look at herself to realize the ridiculous nature of the lies! What man would pass on blonde hair and pretty blue eyes when the alternative was a board-flat Cairhienin that he’d once tried to drown in a tub?

Hand poised to knock at the listed door, she paused, gathered her wits, and smiled, as if she could erase the past few hours with a gesture of friendliness. She might be swallowing back tears, but she'd do what she must now. Sora would like to know she had. Knocking firmly, she waited for the Accepted to appear in her doorway. When Tira appeared, looking sour and sullen, Mietatte knew that this simply wasn't going to work out well. In her imagination, she and the Accepted had made a tentative greeting, and the Accepted had confessed to acting quickly without thought, and offered to release her from that totally ridiculous punishment, and they'd both been happy. Reality was different: Tira glared at her, and Mietatte considered just swallowing her concerns and going back to her chores. Surely, Laras could dredge up a few more pots.

"It…it's about my punishment, Accepted," she said, staring at a knot in the woman's door. "I…didn't…do…anything that that letter said, and I didn't write it, and I didn't pin it to your door. It was just a stupid assignment for Keille Sedai, and I mean, look at me, do you honestly think…?" She let her words falter there, although they had been gaining strength: if Tira had had rainclouds on her face at the sight of Mietatte, they were now looming thunderheads. A smarter woman might have turned tail and run, but Mia stood her ground, and after a minute, her mouth even began running again. "And you can't be true about Sora, Accepted: if he were dead, they wouldn't still be looking for him. He has to be alive."

It was with disgust that Mietatte eyed Tira’s slammed door: the slam had had no effect on the deaf Novice, but then again, the Accepted didn’t seem to realize that. Another punishment, and harsh words about laziness: what did they matter? The woman refused to recant her tale of Sora’s death, and in the end, Mia supposed that was three-quarters of the reason she had braved Certain Doom in the Accepted’s sacred halls and bearded the girl in the first place. She had seemed so resigned to Soradrelle’s death: she had said it as if it had already happened, not as if it were merely a rumor or a possibility. Mia had dreams of her own, but that didn’t necessarily mean that Sora would ever do any of those abominable things: in fact, she was quite sure that the mere idea would send him off in gales of laughter. Except, of course, that dead people didn’t laugh, in Mia’s experience.

Lost in her own thoughts, Mietatte chose her way back to her bedroom with care, lingering so long that it was entirely possible Mina would be asleep by the time she returned. She was exhausted, yes, but it was buried under a layer of cold, hard shock: she felt as if her sleep were imprisoned in an egg that was slowly being boiled over a fire. At one point, pressure would crack it, and then it would come to her in an overwhelming wave: a yellow yolk of tiredness, a soft white layer of sleep that would stick in her mouth like any poached egg. With trepidation, she threw open the door to her room, uncertain what to expect: half-asleep in her own cot, a non-existent girl turned over where Mina had slept of late.

So Mina had gone, Mia mused: no wondering why in her case. Alone, she turned to the pegs and traded her indecent shift for one just like it, except that it was unembroidered. Because she had spent the day half-naked, she took her gown from its peg, too, and wore it into the bed. The worry she had turned over with her visit to the Accepted kept at its nagging: she pummeled her pillow, telling herself it was only because it was ever lumpy and hard, not at all because she was afraid. How could she begin to live without Soradrelle? Surely, he was out there somewhere. The Accepted was lying, extending a cruel onus to the already horrible chore – a chore that, in fact, had a new and irritating wrinkle to face this morning. She had argued that she must not go outside, but the woman had been deaf – or she simply enjoyed allowing Mietatte to see the worst of her.

Despite her wakefulness, sleep crept into her bed as a midnight lover, stroking her brow with invisible fingers and laying a finger just-so on her evenly rising chest. When she woke, she could sense it was still early: she had been running in her nightmare, and she shivered with some remembered dread. It dissipated with the thin and sullen light of dawn, which Mia greeted, once again dressed in her indecent shift with its proclamation of “promiscuous.” The Accepted had not banned outer garments, merely said that she must wear the shift embroidered so: Mia supposed that it would not be breaking the letter of her ruling to wear her gown over the shift, but she sensed that that would only infuriate the Accepted. She settled for cloak and scarf, and a deep breath as she joined the morning ranks of other Novices assigned to this self-same chore.

Tira had not said that she must work alone, either: it was frightening, but Mietatte felt more secure when she stood in the midst of a throng of other Novices. A sour-faced and pimply Accepted man pointed them into differing sections of the gardens to “still their magpie tongues,” but Mia felt little fear so long as she could see other white skirts. The autumn leaves were a swirl of cinnamon and rust, large and gaudy drops of blood on the whitestone paths. She swept and bagged, leaving the large sacks in their places: some of them must weigh more than she for all that she could not lift them. The Tower’s gardeners would remove them in a silently efficient fashion, and work some growing magic on them: they’d be back, covering the Amyrlin’s roses or the Water Garden’s ponds mulchy bottoms, where the delicate and scented lilies reigned the summer.

She had cheated herself of so much beauty, she knew: the Gardens might be public, but they were safe. She would make herself come here, open a book, and sit, this afternoon, in the hour before chores. Soradrelle would like that: he had told her a hundred times if once that the Gardens held nothing for her to fear. She knew that her fear was irrational, but she could not make herself glance toward the gates: there was more to it than her terror of the garden. In a few short hours, the city would enter the Tower campus, and none were limited at the gate. But, she could console herself: none of the city would dare enter her classrooms or even the dining hall where she would eat in solitary splendor. The Tower was safe: she would not fear anything within its grounds. The city was not safe: she would avoid it.

But the Gardens, now that they were dead and rotting, she could have. Shivering in her cloak, smelling the rich mustiness of soil and the vague aroma of rot, Mietatte tried to remember what dead bodies smelled like. She couldn’t, which was likely a blessing, but the ghost of the smell of dead and burning leaves followed her through her day, wafted to her from the scents caught in the folds of her garments. She ate a nauseated lunch tortured by the scent, a lunch whose contents she could not name unless she saw them again, which she didn’t. This was all Tira’s fault, she decided, sourly: Tira’s fault for taking personally what had she had never been meant to see, Tira’s fault for not knowing her lover well enough to control her jealousy. Tira’s fault for saying Sora was dead, too: it couldn’t be true. If it were true, the Aes Sedai would know!

Maybe the Aes Sedai will never know, Mia thought, and not for the first time. Maybe someone’s cut him down and buried him, and no one will ever know, except Tira. Maybe he’s been dead since he stepped off the island: they certainly can’t find him. If he never gave his name, never told anyone, and he died, no one would tell the Aes Sedai. No one would ever think to. Weighted by logic, Mietatte saw the flaw in her faith acutely: she might be wrong. Tira could be the harbinger of bad news, and in a few months, could it be that everyone would see the truth in what she said? Something dark and angry stole into Mia’s sullen heart and stabbed, deeply, into the meat of her: she felt it dimly, a pain that made her chest knot and her eyes burn. The tears she had known she would cry were coming, and the Dark One take her morning classes: she was going to cry in her only private place, and when her eyes were dry, she would come out again.

It was early evening by the time a red-eyed and red-faced Novice crept out of her room, called by duty to discharge the last part of her daily chore. She wasn’t doing the work for Tira, or even for herself or her fear: she was doing the work for…well, she considered, hiccupping another soft sob, that wasn’t true either. She could wash a mountain of dishes, but the dead didn’t rise again. Did they? She paused, and thought, and shook her head. No, that wouldn’t be, but if it were, she would scrub until her fingers rotted in the hot and soapy water of the sinks. Scrubbing her eyes briskly with the back of her hand, Mia presented herself in the kitchens, ignoring the questioning stares directed at her, and swathed herself with an apron to protect her white shift.

Her brainstorm occurred halfway through a giant pot with curdled porridge at its bottom: : if Tira knew Sora so well because she was his lover, then Tira had never had the right to punish her for something she hadn’t done anyway. Tira had had the duty to listen to the entire tale, but she had only doubled her chore and sent her away. Well, two could play at not listening, and at being deaf to others, Mia had a heck of a home advantage. Making a thin and flimsy excuse, seizing a bucket behind the Mistress of the Kitchens’ broad back, Mia dipped it into the sinks and threw a cover over it. It was not inconceivable that it was a mere privy bucket, which would raise Accepted eyebrows, since the Tower’s mass of servants took care of things so menial, but if the chance existed that it was, Mia suspected not one Accepted would stop her. Who wanted to have a look? Hiding a smile – that might get her stopped even with the bucket – Mia scrambled through the halls, taking the turnings that led to Tira’s room.

This hadn’t been forbidden, either, not exactly: with caution, Mia glanced down the long hall, counting the fans of light that spread under closed doors. Tira’s room was dark, but that could mean anything: creeping closer, she tried the knob and threw open the door, poking it all the way open with a slippered foot. No weave or Ward impeded her presence, so she closed the door again – gently – and took a look around. Where to empty the bucket? Women who punished another hypocritically deserved to lay in what they were spreading: filth. Well, there was only one place to lay in Tira’s neat quarters, and that was the bed: peeling down the blankets and sheet, layering them over the footboard, Mia lifted her bucket and flung out the contents, leaving a dark and greasy smear over the featherbed. Working quickly, she remade the bed to regulation neatness, and shrugged: she felt guilty, yes, but it was a good feeling.

The mouse had done a lot more than roar, this time: the mouse was feasting in the kitchen while the goodwife twisted about in a filthy bed. Feeling a brief surge of smug self-satisfaction, Mietatte returned to her room, and her bed. 

Tira stalked down the hall, finding herself in an even worse mood than she'd been the night before. That awful novice she'd punished had had the nerve to show up at her door, waking her from a sound sleep. If she'd felt regret before in punishing her the way she had, it had dissipated with the girls protestations that she'd done nothing wrong, and that Tira herself was wrong in believing Soradrelle to be dead. She'd called her down for laziness, and told her that she'd had her opportunity to deny the letter. She hadn't, and so now she must carry out not only her original punishment, but sweep the garden paths as well. The whole thing had infuriated Tira so much that she'd been unable to sleep the rest of the night. She woke the next morning feeling like she'd gone through a sparring match with an Aethan'Tar. Then, to top off what was fast becoming a miserable week, she then spent the day with that ridiculous bumblebee sister again. Worse, she had snapped at the woman, and as a result spent the remainder of her evening dragging more books about bumblebees out of the tower library. And most of them had been written by Jurima Sedai herself!

So now she was finally able to make her way to her room. The one consolation she had was that she was so tired she would probably collapse and sleep the night without dreaming. So when she entered her room, and noticed a slightly strange odor, she shrugged, thinking that maybe she had some book dust in the folds of her gown. She undressed with bliss, peeling off her accepted dress and tossing it in the corner. She really had no desire to mess with tidying things this evening. It could wait until tomorrow. Then, attired in a freshly laundered shift, she blew out her candle and climbed into bed.

She promptly jumped out of her bed just moments later, when ice cold water soaked her shift. With an uttered oath she embraced the source and channeled a light. Her bed was filled with filthy water, her sheets and mattress ruined. She knew, without even lingering on the thought, exactly who was responsible. Mietatte! As an image of the novice filled her mind, Tira's blood began to boil. She was so angry that she lost hold on the source altogether and the room plunged into darkness. Cursing in earnest now, she fumbled around for a flint to light her candle. Once it was lit, she began the onerous task of dragging her wet sheets off the mattress and then dragging the mattress off the bed frame. She could have used the power to pull the water out of the mattress, but she couldn't calm down enough to even try and touch the source. Plus the mattress was filthy, and would need to cleaned, and she just didn't want to deal with trying to clean it, using the power or other wise.

Then a thought occurred to her. She changed her wet shift, and put her gown back on. Then she quickly made her way back to the novice quarters. It didn't take her long to find Mietatte's room, and she threw open the door with a bang. That didn't seem to bother the novice, who appeared to be sleeping soundly. Tira stared down at her sleeping form, and her mind was filled with thoughts of revenge. It was no longer about Soradrelle, it was personal. She'd invaded Tira's private space, and for that she was going to pay.

The next two hours found Mietatte struggling to carry a wet feather mattress down to the laundry. She then had to carry a fresh one back to Tira's room and remake her bed with clean sheets. After that, she had to wash all of Tira's gowns as well as her shifts, and return them to her room once they were dry. Now snuggled down into a soft new bed, Tira smiled in satisfaction. In addition to all of that, Tira had added to her original punishment as well. Along with sweeping the garden paths, and scrubbing pots in the kitchens, she now had to help serve at mealtimes. All while wearing her lovely shift with it's embroidered brand. All in all, it was now a good end to a hideous day. 

There was nothing quite so disconcerting as to wake with angry hands on you and a furious face inches from your own. Mietatte blinked and recoiled, her head hitting the wall with a hollow thud that jarred her jaw and made her bite her tongue. The taste of blood, hot and metallic, filled her mouth quickly, and, nauseated, she swallowed. She doubted Tira would take her spit, bloody or no, as a necessary thing: she had heard a tale of a Novice forced to clean a floor with her tongue for just such a perpetration! Before Tira, she had scoffed at it, sure it couldn’t be true, but now that the Valkyrie fiend was in her room, just about anything seemed entirely possible. Old tales were gaining a new plausibility by the minute. The light the other woman had channeled limned her scarred cheek and added an ethereal light to her pale hair, although Mia found that hard to enjoy when the woman in question was glaring daggers at her. Better to be in the dark, except then she couldn’t hope to have any idea what Tira might want.

Not, of course, that she was innocent: she knew exactly why an incensed Accepted stood in her room, her mouth twitching with rage and her hand reaching, convulsively, for long locks that were forever gone. Tira was angry, now: Mia eyed her with wide-eyed falsity. If she could trust her mouth, she might have tried for a barbed goad – as it was, she settled for internal smug self-satisfaction. So she hadn’t enjoyed her roll in the filth – good! Mietatte was enjoying it even less. Only, she reflected, as the other woman’s iron fist relinquished her before the stinking mattress and putrid sheets, there was no soap or scrubbrush to take to her memories, or even her reputation! The massive and sopping creation was both larger and wider than she: to conquer it, she had to roll it into a ball and pray there was no one on the stairs at this late hour. Rubbing her arm, where Tira’s hand had clutched her with a hold that brooked no nonsense at all, Mietatte heaved a sigh and rolled the featherbed onward.

At least, she mused, one hand on the soaked linens, Tira couldn’t be taking her punishment lying down. Now that she was safely away from the wretched harridan, the ghost of a smile graced her lips, lending her a raw and immature loveliness, a child’s sweetness. It had been good revenge, no denying that. If she had waited to exact it, she might have managed to escape unscathed, but Light above, if this was a punishment, she was going to earn every day of it. And she had, she recalled, five more to go. Yesterday, with its terrible, raw shock, and the day before, with the letter that had honestly ceased to disturb her. If Soradrelle touched her, it would be necrophilia - that was what was on her mind. All this effort, and all those relentlessly pursued high marks – he would never be proud of them. He’d never even know.

A hot salty tear dripped off her nose, making her eyes burn from the sheer irritation of crying again. She couldn’t think of this now, but it wouldn’t leave her mind. The featherbed’s wild slitherings kept her mind occupied for a short time, but the laundress’ sympathetic smile as she pushed it toward a standing barrel of lye soap and bitterly scented crystals grated on her. Could it be she was the last to know? She must believe that someone, somewhere, still held a hope of finding him – or his body. It would be too cruel to believe that the Whitecloaks could have discarded someone so dear in a shallow hole without even marking the grave for what it was. Someone like Soradrelle deserved a monument, but never a mausoleum: he would hate to be imprisoned in the ground or in a marble house. Honestly, he ought to ride the wind: she thought he might like that.

If she had thought it hard to drag a featherbed down, it was three times as difficult to push one, fluffy and unruly, up the same stairs she’d just run down. She took great pleasure in allowing it to bounce on each stair, knowing it would come out lumpy and slightly dusty: it served Tira right, even if it was a petty revenge. Huffing and puffing, Mia rolled it to the Accepted’s door, stifling a yawn as she did. Nothing would suit then than that the Accepted demand she loft the thing onto the top of the bed, and encase it in fresh linens that she was forced to race back down to the laundry for. There were rules about entering the Accepted’s linen closets, strict and forceful ones, too. By the time the woman’s bed was made to her satisfaction, the moon was long abed, and she glared virulently at Tira’s door as the Accepted beyond settled into her warm, fresh bed. Mia wouldn’t see her bed again tonight: she had to wash five Accepted gowns, ten shifts, and untold numbers of stockings!

It was with an ill grace that Mietatte settled into her work at the washboard, grating the occasional knuckle with a muttered curse. The rhythm of washing made her want to drop off to sleep, but the pain of freshly cut knuckles and fatty lye soap soon ended that. The gowns were not much trouble, neat and white, but the shifts had stains on them that Mia didn’t think she even wanted to speculate about. Sure, the grass stains might be from sitting in the Gardens, but then again, the woman might just be a flipskirt. The idea of Soradrelle and a bloody lightskirt infuriated her, but men made stupid choices – even the Red Ajah said so. Working particularly hard on a stain that looked like currant wine, Mietatte wondered what the two could possibly have had. And it wasn’t, she told herself, that she was jealous at all.

How could you want what couldn’t be had?

By the hour after dawn, a hungry and tired Mietatte was lugging the bentwood basket of Tira’s laundry back to her lofty quarters, where the door proved locked and impenetrable. Well, she could attempt to wake Miss Flipskirt Accepted, or she could just leave the basket: with hunger gnawing at her spine, she chose the second option. If she ran, she could seize a roll and some butter on her way through to the Gardens, where her broom waited: she could hardly afford to skimp on her chores just because her eyes were redder than a pot of Domani blushing powder. Tiredness and tears did not combine well: the face that confronted her in the mirror-polished glass of her hall, where she must race to don her shift and begin another day, was peaked and swollen, with dark rings to delineate the red puffiness.

It was impossible to hide the ravages, and she wouldn’t know where to start, anyway. The cool air felt good on her skin, even if it did pebble into goosebumps. Her head down, her thoughts idle, she pushed her broom along the path she’d been given by the same pimple-faced Accepted as the day before. It was easy going – this was easily the best chore she’d ever had – until she struck mud. The white stones were caked with it, and the leaves stuck out of the dried mess like faded confetti. Irritably, she pawed at it with the broom, then reversed the contraption to poke at it with the wooden handle. Neither worked: she had to push the largest flakes off with her shoe and then scour the stone with her broom to do the job. The mud was like glue! Brushing it off her shoe with her thumb, she glared down at it, and then, suddenly, like a sunburst during a storm, she smiled.

The mud was like glue. Who could she think of that she might wish to seal in her room forever? Who, at this very moment, was sleeping in a clean bed and dreaming sweet dreams she didn’t deserve? Mia’s smile inched wider, and she seized the closest bag of leaves. She couldn’t take much, but it wouldn’t need much, and the thick layer of leaves at the bottom made it absolutely perfect. With a pilfered spade, Mia dug up a wide flowerbed, taking a compacted hand and a half of dirt to shake with the leaves. Adding more earth with a judicious eye, she stole a glance back at the Accepted. He’d found a Novice to harangue: without bothering to return her broom, Mia sprinted for the Tower. Someone might rat on her, but honestly, what could he do? It wasn’t like he could leave the other Novices alone and come chase her down!

She worked quickly: she had to. Using her hands, Mia plastered the mud and leaves to Tira’s door, working haphazardly and with great paranoia. She had just enough – barely – to seal the door closed, with a thick layer to make sure that the Accepted would be furious when she finally found a way out of her trapped door. The hall was blessedly deserted: the Accepted must be in a lesson, or teaching lessons, now. With a pang, she realized that she was late for arithmetic, but this was more important, for now. Besides, if she wished to be present at head-count before the Novices were excused from path-sweeping, she must be absent.

Steeling herself for the pain, Mietatte cut a ragged hole in her filthy finger, watching the blood flow thickly and hungrily over her palm. With blood came saidar, and she welcomed that sweet Power: reaching out, she let a wave of knotted Air and Fire fan hot air at the door for a few seconds, at least until the top layer of sludge was definitely dry. Praying Tira slept in, Mia made her escape, and buried the evidence deep in the sinks of Laras’ kitchen, with the hot soapy bubbles as quiet co-conspirators.

Tira woke feeling very rested, having spent the night on a brand new mattress with fresh sheets. She stretched luxuriously, joints popping slightly as she did so, and groaned with pleasure. After all the extra chores she'd given Mietatte, she doubted the novice would try a prank on her any time soon. It served the girl right, of course. Once again she hadn't denied Tira's accusations, and had, in fact, looked pleased with herself. Tira had needed no confirmation of who the perpetrator had been, there was only one novice in the tower who'd be angry enough with her to do something so foolish as to put dirty dishwater in her bed. Well, the girl was probably still cleaning Tira's laundry and would bother her no more today.

Since she had several hours before her first class, Tira took her time getting ready. She spent some time clipping her hair-it had to be done often to keep it from growing down into her face, and took her time washing. When Mietatte didn't appear with her laundry, she grew curious. What could be keeping the girl? She thought irritably. First had sounded some time ago, so Mietatte must be out in the gardens by now. If the girl didn't bring her laundry, Tira would have no clothes whatever to wear today. She hadn't thought about keeping back an extra gown just in case-they had all been in need of washing. Heaving a sigh, she decided to peek out the door, to see if maybe Mietatte had left them outside and gone on her way.

She reached for the handle and pulled…but the door wouldn't budge. Tira pulled harder, her puzzlement growing more each second. No matter how hard she pulled, the door would not move an inch. Would an Aes Sedai have locked me in for some reason? She thought nervously. A second later she dismissed it-if she were being punished for something it wouldn't be as tame as locking her in her room. And any Aes Sedai would let her know exactly what she was being punished for. As she shook the door harder, she heard something patter on the floor, and looked to see what it was. Bits of dried dirt were coming in from under the door. She brushed it with her fingers, looking at it in amazement. Dirt? How did dirt get under my door?

Tira was very confused, but after a while it dawned on her to channel and see if she could figure out what was blocking her door. She wove fine threads of Air and inserted them through the crack in the side of the door. Pulling it back out again, she examined her findings. It was a clump of dirt, hardened to a clay like finish. There were bits of dead leaves stuck in the dirt as well, and Tira stared at it in disbelief, finding herself even more bewildered. She continued to pull at the door, and using flows of Air to pull out more clumps of dirt. Sweat was beginning to drip down her face and neck, and she had smears of dirt on her hands and on her shift. It was only after she'd gone around the whole door and made no progress in un-sticking it, that she realized what must have happened. That…that little creature, had sealed her door shut with mud! It was the only explanation, and a rage like that she'd never felt before filled her heart, causing the source to flee like a hunted rabbit. Furious beyond bearing, she beat at her door, yelling as loudly as she could to attract some kind of attention. But most of the Accepted on her floor were teaching or going to lessons at this time. The hall would be deserted, which was probably how Mietatte had gotten away with this in the first place.

By now she had a pile of dirt and leaves scattered all about, and her feet looked as though she'd been frolicking in a flower bed, which is probably where this stuff had come from. She found that she had to sit on the only chair in her room, and go over novice exercises in her head in order to calm down enough to touch the source again. It must have taken her all of twenty minutes, but finally she felt the light beckoning, and she surrendered, letting it fill her. Weaving flows of Water and Air, she used them to work at the mud, and found herself having to increase the amount of Water she was using. Muddy water began pouring into her room from around the door, along with un-dissolved clumps that fell to the floor with a plopping sound. By the time she finally got the door unstuck, she was covered in dirt from head to toe. The sight that greeted her outside her door caused her blood to boil even more and once again made the source untouchable. All of her gowns, shifts and stockings were covered in mud, sitting there innocently in their basket. The little chit must have left them there before conducting her evil prank. It was like she was doing her best to complete her punishments, while at the same time causing Tira no end of grief. It was enough to make a person scream, and Tira did just that, as she kicked the basket across the floor. It scattered her clothes everywhere, making them even more dirty and in a rage she stormed into her room and threw her chair against the wall, where it smashed into several pieces. After a while she went back into the hall and gathered up her scattered clothes, trying to decide which would be best to wear so she could go and find Mietatte.

Trying to wrap herself in as much dignity as she could muster, Tira hurried to the novice classrooms, wearing a cloak over the only clean shift she had left. It had been in the very bottom of the basket, and so had escaped to worst of the damage. It struck her how she was now in the same boat as Mietatte really, being forced to wander the tower in her shift. Oh, she would make that little wench pay for this! She'd gone to the seamstress, but there had been no gowns available that would fit her, and she refused to wear the green satin her mother had sent, for fear she would get mud on it. Besides, if an Aes Sedai caught her in it, they would probably burn the thing and she'd be no better off than she was now, no matter what explanation she offered. For nearly half an hour she wandered up and down the lesson hall, poking her head into classrooms and receiving odd, and sometimes hostile, looks from teachers and students alike. She'd gotten through all the rooms and realized she hadn't seen Mietatte anywhere when the bell rang and dozens of white dresses poured into the hall. She backed up against a broom cupboard and waited till the exodus was finished, and began again, pausing at each door until at last she spotted Mietatte in a history lesson.

"Aes Sedai," she said, trying to curtsy while keeping her cloak closed. "I need Novice Mietatte to come with me." A few of the girls in the room giggled, but the brown quelled them all with a look. She turned that same look on Tira and inquired,

Why are you interrupting my class? And in your shift no less. Is that all the originality that sisters can come up with these days, making girls wander around unclothed?"

Gritting her teeth and try not to think about the flush that was creeping up her neck she answered, "I need to take Mietatte to complete a penance Aes Sedai." Tira prayed fervently that the women would just let her take Mietatte and go. After a few moments thought, she sent Mietatte on her way with a wave of the hand and turned back to teaching her class. The novice looked sullen, but once again Tira could see that gleam in her eyes, of self-satisfaction of a job well done. Well, Tira would be sure to make the consequences of her actions severe enough that she wouldn't be tempted to try her again.

Settling on her bed to read a book, Tira made Mietatte fetch some rags, water and a scrub brush. Then she watched the girl as she cleaned up every scrap of mud. No only did Tira make Mietatte clean up the mess she'd made, but she then made her scrub and polish every inch of the room. Including disposing of the broken pieces of chair that Tira had smashed, and finding her another to replace it. By the time Mietatte had finished she'd missed most of her morning classes. But Tira would send a note around to her teachers. They would understand. Discipline came before all else in the tower-learning the power was a privilege, and that privilege could be taken away when you didn't obey the rules.

The seamstress finally found an Accepted dress to fit her so that she wouldn't have to wait around unclothed while Mietatte rewashed her clothes. She sent the girl about her other chores, with firm instructions to have all the clothing washed, dried and folded and back outside her door by the day after tomorrow. Tira then rushed to an afternoon class, but made time throughout the rest of the day to check up on Mietatte. Then, when darkness had finally settled on Tar Valon, she met the girl as she was leaving the kitchens and walked her to her room in the novice gallery without speaking. Once there she said, "I hope this makes you realize that you are only harming yourself with these foolish pranks. I would think by now that you are too tired to try anything else. Oh, and in addition to everything you already have to do, you will also work in cleaning the library. Report to the head librarian tomorrow and tell her you are there to scrub floors. Good night, Novice Mietatte."

With that Tira spun on her heal and returned to her rooms. She didn't think the novice would try anything else, not if she wanted to work twice as hard tomorrow. Happy with the days progress, and attired in a clean shift the seamstress had also provided, Tira went to sleep and dreamed pleasant dreams of what she would do to Mietatte if the girl tried to cross her again. 

It was a sight to make a stone explode into laughter: clinging to her cloak while displaying an acre of bare leg, Accepted Tira poked her head into Janeel Sedai’s classroom. Mietatte had hidden from her the first time with the simple expedient of bending her head over her lesson: in a sea of dark hair, she had blended in despite the scarlet letters on her chest. Here, she had no such safety: Tira had caught her with her hand lifted to ask a question – a repeat of the timeline the Aes Sedai had just proclaimed to the board, actually – and so, she was caught in the woman’s clawed clutches. Standing, Mia gathered her books and her notes, waving a page absently in the sincere hope that it would dry before she needed to study it. This week of Tira’s was wreaking havoc on her study time, and it showed: she had been corrected six times already for simple mistakes.

The amusement in her eyes was impossible to hide: Mia swept Tira from foot to head in a laughing glance. Bare legs, muddy feet, mud-edged cloak, thunderous expression on her scarred face. The patient mien was gone, used and filed away for another meeting with an Aes Sedai, perhaps: the look she turned on Mietatte was outraged. They traversed the halls from the Hall of Classrooms to the Accepted Well without passing words – what could they say? Mietatte would not deny her guiltiness, but neither would she accept punishment for what she had not done. She had not been Soradrelle’s lover, but she would accept punishment for the torture of an Accepted. She earned each day’s penance, and she would continue for seven days: after that, she refused to accept any more. A week was all she owed: no more and no less. After that week, she was free, and so was Sora, even if he’d never know it.

It was evident what the woman needed her to do: a sea of sludgy mud had flowed over the rainbow tiles and under her door, a little brown ocean that lapped at the footboard of her bed. Rags and cleanser, a mop and bucket, scrub brushes and soap: Mia found it all with efficient ease. She would not tell, but it did not bother her to clean floors or pots: she liked to restore order, enjoyed the stretch and strain of cleaning. A great deal, she mused, of an Aes Sedai’s work was in chores like this: certainly they did not clean floors, but they did clean nations, tidy up after wars. Waging her own battle against the muck, Mia ended up filthy, grey and brown. That, too, was a Novice Handbook offense, but Tira said nothing as Mia disappeared to search for a chair and a clean shift. The shift was easier to find than the chair: she had three now with the red letters on the chest. Trading the dirtied one for another, Mia sighed: now her regular time spent in the laundry would be doubled.

The chair was finally located: Tira was issued another from the motley assortment of furniture too battered or old for the sisters’ rooms. Mia struggled to bear it through the halls. It was not heavy, but it was large, and bulky, and she was small and slight. When a tall Accepted man took it from her, she said nothing about it, only smiled and pointed the way to Tira’s chambers. Now restored to their usual state of cleanliness, only a whisper of the scent of mold remained: it was hard to remember the brown sea of mud on the floor when faced with a clean, orderly rug, white wooden floors, and a new chair still smelling of beeswax. Not for the first time, Mia considered how much nicer an Accepted’s room was: it wasn’t fair. But a Novice’s lot was a Novice’s lot, and Mia’s lot included no lessons and a new chore. How would that affect her grades? She had to be present to learn, and here she’d be off scrubbing marble with a dozen other bodies in white!

Even tomorrow’s lessons were a wash: she would be scrubbing floors under the Librarian’s gimlet glare. Being close to books did not mean she would learn by osmosis. With foul grace, and weathered hands from the hot, soapy sinks, Mietatte shoved papers into books and flung the entire collection to the top of the battered and chipped table that served her as a desk. All this work and she still had more for her classes, which she would be expected to do whether she’d been able to attend class and ask questions or not! The only lessons she was excused from currently were those involving the One Power, and as Mietatte saw it, those were the least of her worries, anyway. Sleep? What was that? She barely had time to scrub her face clean when she was done crying, and get back up again with a smile for the next new day. Desultorily, she opened a book: the numbers on the pages swam before her eyes in a burlesque dance. It couldn’t hurt if she closed her eyes for just a minute…

She woke in the dark, with a sudden start, her hand rising to her throat as if it could restrain the scream. Her door did not open, but she could not hear to say if there was pounding on it, although she doubted there would be. There was supposed to be an Accepted on duty to make sure no one was murdered in bed at night, but Mia hadn’t seen one since her first few nights on the hall. Stretching gingerly, stiff from her stint of sleeping in her seat, her head pillowed on her book of ciphers, candle burnt to nothing, Mietatte slit her eyes at the thought of a new day. No, she didn’t want to rise, much less shine: eyeing her perfectly made bed (well, there was one less chore) she wished she could crawl in and draw the blanket over her head. All she had time to do, if her internal clock was right, was splash water on her face, braid her hair, and change her shift. Light, but she was looking forward to picking those carefully embroidered letters out!

Her body still broadcasted a medley of aches and pains as she eased herself down the stairs, steadfastly ignoring the scent of fresh bread from the kitchens. She couldn’t remember eating the night before, but there was no time now: she had no time for anything! In a way, it was a blessing: no time meant that she could swallow the hard knot of tears in her throat and scrub, or sweep, or…She wiped a stray tear away with the edge of her cloak, and seized a broom as the pimply Accepted handed them out. Without waiting for her assignment – they were always the same, you here, you there – she chose a path and began to push the broom lifelessly along. White paths, red leaves – it was a conjunction that she didn’t like to look at. She brushed the leaves into a pile, left them in place, a giant bead of blood. She had to hurry if she were going to be on time for her library chores.

The Library was tall, and stocky: stepping through the Novice Door, she wiped her feet, in their muddied slippers, carefully on the mat. The scent of old paper filled her nose, calming and pleasant, with overtones of mold and a strange, acrid scent that might be aging ink. She liked the Library: this was no chore, either. With silent feet, she signed the roster of daily chores, and went to select her bucket and brush from the massive collection left to molder in a dark, warm closet under the stairwell. Equally as quiet, she drew water from the pump, laying over it to work the ancient mechanism. It first needed priming, hard strokes that required great strength, and then it gave water in ebbing trickles and runnels. She filled her bucket at length, and added powdery soap: foamy whiteness that stood out against her slightly dirtied shift.

She had luck on her side today, too: the list had been heavily signed, and if it had had its easiest jobs picked off, scrubbing the entryway was hardly arduous. She settled to her knees, dipped her brush, and began, pausing every so often to admire the colored glass so high above her head. On a sunny day, the Library was filled with dancing colors, but today was overcast and gloomy: the colors stayed on the ceiling, where they weren’t as easy to admire. Her stiffness wore slowly away as she scrubbed tiles clean, removing the grime that the Aes Sedai tracked heedlessly past the mats placed to take the mud from their slippers. This mindless work appealed to her: her mind seized the idle moments and filled them with thoughts. Unfortunately, she had only two things to think of, both touching on Accepted Tira: was she right, about Soradrelle, and was she thinking she’d beaten her into quiescence?

A sharp rap on her behind made her swivel around, expecting another Novice but confronting an Aes Sedai. “Would think you were deaf, girl,” the Aes Sedai complained, eyeing her as she knelt on the floor. Mia bit back the obvious – it would only get her a sharper bit of treatment with whatever had slapped her rump already – and merely smiled instead. If the woman pressed, she’d say she’d been daydreaming: it was, after all, the truth. She had been daydreaming! Regaining her feet, she stood protectively over her pail: if it were emptied, she’d have to begin again. The woman merely nodded, as if the red letters on her chest told a tale that even the sisters knew, and began to order Mia about. Put up the bucket, put on your cloak: come and fetch these notices for missing books and take them about to the classrooms. It was a pleasant change from scrubbing, and, as she thumbed through the notices, she spied one that gave her a moment’s pause.

Accepted Tira Chakima, the notice read, had a very late book. Mia grinned at the notice, a conspirator in a secret plot. One late book meant that you received a penance unless it was returned: if you couldn’t find it, you had to make another copy of the volume for the Library yourself. Mia had always been careful of her books, and had never returned one late: in fact, she was usually reading, and so, she returned them quite frequently so that she could have another. The book that Tira owed was a simple treatise on the Atha’an Miere: that was hardly going to be a fitting punishment to read aloud. Of course, there was always a certain degree of shame to having your name read aloud, but Travels With the Sea Folk was hardly a scandalous title. Pursing her lips, a quill in her fingers, Mia thought - then what would be?

The notions that came to mind were enough, she thought, to make the most stoic and jaded whore out on the dock blush like a maid.

She wrote quickly, pausing to grin at her own ingenuity, and then gathered up her cloak, slinging it over her shoulders as she scurried out on her errand. Eight slips of paper – one for every hour of Tira’s Accepted day – hung from the inside pocket of her cloak, twisted around the thick sheaf that represented everyone else’s lost books. At the stand mirror, located just off the Great Hall, where Aes Sedai could pause to make sure they looked their part as they dispensed justice and fought verbal spars, Mia paused as well, and schooled her face to a lesser degree of mischievous malice. How wrong was it that she was beginning to enjoy inflicting the same reputation-degrading damage upon the blonde, scarred Accepted as the woman had pinned to her by refusing to listen? Soradrelle would be horrified, she thought, and that was enough to wipe the smile from her face.

She moved on, a sober little spectre in white, thin as a wraith and as insubstantial as a dream. The Accepted were gathered for a morning seminar on an Ajah, according to the thick schedule the Librarian had granted to her, and Tira would be present. Selecting out those papers that coincided with the lesson, Mia knocked, paused a second, and entered quickly, closing the door with her free hand. The lecturer, a sister clothed in red and wearing the shawl of that Ajah, gave her a short, pained sniff, and Mia settled in to wait. She would let the Aes Sedai finish her speech, and then the podium would be hers, just for a moment. She’d have to make it count, and although her first thought was to shriek that she’d never done what the letter had said, Tira would only punish her for that. She’d do as she was assigned…and exact what small pleasure she could from the exercise.

“Accepted Anghar is to return Belinde Sedai’s travel journals to the Library at once. Accepted Carlya also owes a copy of Brighthart’s Peerage to the Library, due at once. Accepted Dovien owes a copy of Swords of the Southlands to the Library. Accepted Hadrig owes a copy of Silverwort and Silver Wood to the Library, or he can return it to Sabin Sedai, to whom it belonged before it arrived there. Accepted Marise owes a copy of Cairhien: the City of the Rising Sun, to the Library. Accepted Orajana owes a copy of Method or Madness to the Library. Accepted Paetr owes a copy of Bells in the Blight to the Library.” And now, she thought, for the last: she reached into her pocket and withdrew another sheet of paper, a tiny smile playing on her lips.

“And Accepted Tira Chakima,” Mietatte read, “owes a book called Scratches at My Tent Flaps to the Library, due right away.” She curtsied to the assembly, spotting more than one snickering mouth as she dipped again for the Aes Sedai, and let herself out. If the woman thought it was over, she was wrong: there were seven more to be read aloud. That kept her step light as she walked from classroom to classroom. Before she was ready, another hour had passed, and she located her quarry within an advanced lesson in history, head bent over a book. Were her cheeks red? Well, they should be, if she had even entertained the notion of she and Sora! Of course, what did that say for her own cheeks? Still, those had been but daydreams, no real desire behind them – she was beyond that. She only wanted to be Aes Sedai, and if that was impossible, then she would be content to remain as Novice.

“I’ve overdue notices from the Library,” Mia said, as she entered the classroom, waiting politely for the teacher’s eye to fall on her. “I won’t be a moment.” She took her place, reached into her pocket, and drew out another slip. “Accepted Tira Chakima,” she read again, her tones smooth to hide the laughter she was fighting back, “owes a copy of Harvest Time in Saldaea to the Library, at once.” This time, some of the laughter was evident immediately: there were a few in this class who had attended the other lesson. Tira’s face was unreadable, but red: she’d gotten the connotation. Anyone would: Mia had not aimed to be subtle in her defacement of the woman’s reputation. Tira hadn’t spared hers a moment’s thought, had she?

It continued through the day: at the top of each hour, like clockwork, Mietatte appeared in Tira’s class, not missing the two the woman taught during the day. The third book to be missing was Sensations of the Aiel Sweatbath, and the fourth, delivered while the woman was busily attempting to teach Novices, who watched with glittering eyes and great amusement as Mia declared that Tira had lost a copy of Powder and Paint: the Definitive Guide to Ensnaring a Man.The fifth notice was delivered as the woman worked at ciphers, her cheeks a desperate shade of red above her book as she strove not to listen to Mia’s musing on what a book called On the Gaidin’s Sword and the Aielman’s Spear could possibly be about.