"My hands are too big," he said. "These marks are too small. I am made for fighting, not scratching."
His friend, who had managed a better shape by moving slower, snorted.
"Your brain is too small," he replied. "Not your hands."
The older man glared.
"Say that again."
"You heard me."
They would have started wrestling if Isabella had not flicked a small stone at them.
It hit both of their foreheads with perfect accuracy.
"If you two break my school on the first day," she warned, "I will throw you into the snow with no furs."
They sat back down at once.
Hours went by like that.
Ink spilled. Paper tore. Fingers got stained black. Children proudly showed their crooked marks to Isabella, and she corrected their fingers, their wrist angle, their posture.
The sun moved, then began to sink, and the winter light softened.
