The grease from the tallow lamp had dried into a cloudy ring around the edge of the brass tray.

Nila kept her spine perfectly straight, her forearm resting flat against the dark oak table as she drew the slate pencil down the gray stone slab. The high window behind her was completely dark, the early morning hour offering no light to help her read the columns of names she had been copying since the third watch.

Across the table, Evelyn sat with a silver needle in her fingers, pulling a thick thread of gray wool through the hem of a winter tunic. She hadn't spoken since the service omegas brought...