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elaborate design.
    Jamison watched Kira as she remembered. Then he said, "Your mother had been teaching you the art."
    Kira nodded. "Since I was small," she acknowledged aloud.
    "Your mother was a skilled worker. Her dyes were steadfast. They have not faded."
    "She was careful," Kira said, "and thorough."
    "We are told that your skill is greater than hers."
    So they knew.
"I still have much to learn," Kira said.
    "And she taught you the coloring, as well as the stitches?"
    Kira nodded because she knew he expected her to. But it was not exactly true. Her mother had planned to teach her the art of the dyes, but the time had not yet come before the illness struck. She tried to be honest in her answer. "She was beginning to teach me," Kira said. "She told me that she had been taught by a woman named Annabel."
    "Annabella now," Jamison said.
    Kira was startled. "She is still alive? And four syllables?"
    "She is very old. Her sight is somewhat diminished. But she can still be used as a resource."
    Resource for what?
But Kira stayed silent. The scrap in her pocket was warm against her hand.
    Suddenly Vandara stood. "I request that these proceedings continue," she said abruptly and harshly. "This is a delaying tactic on the part of the defender."
    The chief guardian rose. Around him, the other guardians, who had been murmuring among themselves, fell silent.
    His voice, directed at Vandara, was not unkind. "You may go," he said. "The proceedings are complete. We have reached our decision."
    Vandara stood silent, unmoving. She glared at him defiantly. The chief guardian nodded, and two guards moved forward to escort her from the room.
    "I have a right to know your decision!" Vandara shouted, her face twisted with rage. She wrested her arms free of the guards' grasp and faced the Council of Guardians.
    "Actually," the chief guardian said in a calm voice, "you have no rights at all. But I am going to tell you the decision so that there will be no misunderstanding.
    "The orphan girl Kira will stay. She will have a new role."
    He gestured toward the Singer's robe, still spread out on the table. "Kira," he said, looking at her, "you will continue your mother's work. You will go beyond her work, actually, since your skill is far greater than hers was. First, you will repair the robe, as your mother always did. Next, you will restore it. Then your true work will begin. You will
complete
the robe." He gestured toward the large undecorated expanse of fabric across the shoulders. He raised one eyebrow, looking at her as if he were asking a question.
    Nervously Kira nodded in reply and bowed slightly.
    "As for you?" The chief guardian looked again at Vandara, who stood sullenly between the guards. He spoke politely to her. "You have not lost. You demanded the girl's land, and you may have it, you and the other women. Build your pen. It would be wise to pen your tykes; they are troublesome and should be better contained.
    "Go now," he commanded.
    Vandara turned. Her face was a mask of fury. She shrugged away the hands of the guards, leaned forward, and whispered harshly to Kira, "You will fail. Then they will kill you."
    She smiled coldly at Jamison. "So, that's it, then," she said. "The girl is yours." She stalked down the aisle and went through the broad door.
    The chief guardian and the other Council members ignored the outburst, as if it were merely an annoying insect that had finally been swatted away. Someone was refolding the Singer's robe.
    "Kira," Jamison said, "go and gather what you need. Whatever you want to bring with you. Be back here when the bell rings four times. And we will take you to your quarters, to the place where you will live from now on."
    Puzzled, Kira waited a moment. But there were no other instructions. The guardians were straightening their papers and collecting their books and belongings. They seemed to have forgotten she was there. Finally she stood, straightened herself against her walking stick, and limped from