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the noisy scratching of Mallina’s pen, and the almost-noiseless click of Calinda’s knotting-pins; she was making a woolly undervest for Rael, and when it was finished, Romilly thought, not without malice, then she would only face the problem of getting Rael to wear it!
    Her eyes glazed in a drowse of perfect boredom, Romilly stared out the window, until the quiet was interrupted by a noisy wail from Mallina.
    “Curse this pen! It sheds blots like nuts in autumn! Now I have blotted another sheet!”
    “Hush, Mallina,” said the governess severely. “Romilly, read to your sister the last of the maxims I set you to copy from the Book of Burdens.”
    Sighing, recalled against her will to the schoolroom, Romilly read sullenly aloud. “A poor worker blames only the tool in his hand.”
    “It is not the fault of the pen if you cannot write without blots,” Calinda reproved, and came to guide the pen in her pupil’s hand. “See, hold your hand so-“
    “My fingers ache,” Mallina grumbled, “Why must I learn to write anyway, spoiling my eyes and making my hands hurt? None of the daughters of High Crags can write, or read either, and they are none the worse for it; they are already betrothed, and it is no loss to them!”
    “You should think yourself lucky,” said the governess sternly, “Your father does not wish his daughters to grow up in ignorance, able only to sew and spin and embroider, without enough learning even to write ‘Apple and nut conserve’ on your jars at harvest time! When I was a girl, I had to fight for even so much learning as that! Your father is a man of sense, who knows that his daughters will need learning as much as do his sons! So you will sit there until you have filled another sheet without a single blot. Romilly, let me see your work. Yes, that is very neat. While I check your sums, will you hear your brother read from his book?”
    Romilly rose with alacrity, to join Rael at his seat; anything was better than sitting motionless at her desk! Calinda bent to guide Mallina’s hand on her pen, and Rael leaned against Romilly’s shoulder; she gave the child a surreptitious hug, then dutifully pointed her finger at the first hand-lettered line of the primer. It was very old; she had been taught to read from this same book, and so, she thought, had Ruyven and Darren before her - the book had been made, and sewn, by her own grandmother when her father had first learned to read; and written in the front were the crudely sprawled letters that said Mikhail MacAran, his own book. The ink was beginning to fade a little, but it was still perfectly legible.
    “The horse is in the stable,” Rael spelled out slowly. “The fowl is in the nest. The bird is in the air. The tree is in the wood. The boat is on the water. The nut is on the tree. The boy is in the-” he scowled at the word and guessed. “Barn?”
    Romilly chuckled softly. “I am sure he wishes he were, as you do,” she whispered, “but that’s not right, Rael. Look, what is that first letter? Spell it out-“
    “The boy is in the kitchen,” he read glumly. “The bread is in the pan?”
    “Rael, you’re guessing again,” she said. “Look at the letters. You know better than that.”
    “The bread is in the oven.”
    “That’s right. Try the next page, now.”
    “The cook bakes the bread. The farmer-” he hesitated, moving his lips, scowling at the page. “Gathers?”
    “That’s right, go on.”
    “The farmer gathers the nuts. The soldier rides the horse. The groom puts the saddle on the horse. Romy, when can I read something that makes sense?”
    Romilly chuckled again. “When you know your letters a bit better,” she said. “Let me see your copybook. Yes, your letters are written there, but look, they sprawl all over the line like ducks waddling, when they should march along neatly like soldiers - see where Calinda ruled the line for you?” She put the primer aside. “But I will tell Calinda you know your