Seraphina
Seraphina turned eighteen while arguing with a lamp.
The wick kept leaning toward one side. She had trimmed it, adjusted the holder and checked the oil. The flame still left half the water corner in shadow.
Nyx watched from her place beside the entrance.
"Move the cup."
Seraphina moved the cup which had been blocking the light.
"Thank you," she said, with as much dignity as the correction allowed.
Her last sleep had come in measured pieces. Enough to remain useful. Not enough to stop the small mistakes arriving before she noticed them. The watch record showed the fourth day of the seventh month. She checked it twice, then wrote the new time beneath it.
Eighteen.
She had expected a clinic shift, a meal afterward and perhaps an argument with her family over how much of the day ought to belong to public duties. None of the plans had included this room or the same damp seam she had been staring at since their first night below.
