That was what stayed with Eira afterwards — not the pain, which was very great, and not the sound Cassian made from the corner, but the count. Eleven pieces of a single ring of wire, each one no longer than a fingernail, each one grey and pitted and soft, laid out in a row on a white cloth by an old woman with tongs and no hands to spare for comfort.
One quick thing
Before you start reading
We keep an anonymous record of which chapters people finish, so we know which books to write more of. It is never sold and never linked to your name.
Choose either. The whole site is yours either way.