The peg in my left hand had already begun to split along the grain. I felt it before I saw it, the pressure shifting upward through the mortise as the pages pressed from beneath. My right hand found the mallet where it had rested these nineteen days. The ash handle was warm from my palm. One strike would seat the new peg and drive the broom-tail deeper, closing the mouth the Servant had opened. The names would settle again under the weight I knew how to apply.

I lifted the mallet. The roof-tree answered with a long, low creak that ran the length of my spine. Salt still crusted the near edge where yesterday’s meal had been cleared. The Knight’s divot stared up at me, empty now. I could make it level again. The dead were only weight; wood knew how to carry weight when the joints were true.

My thumb found the split in the peg. Green ash does not forgive a second driving. The fibers were already lifting, white against the darker heart. If I struck, the table would hold for another season, perhaps two. The five hundred would stay quiet under the boards. My hands had never chosen before. They had only measured, planed, and fitted what was asked of them.

the Servant’s fingers still gripped the broom-tail. She did not look at me. Eleri’s new hand lay flat on the tilting surface, the vellum beneath it darkening where the grease touched it. The pages rising through the split smelled of wet hide and old ink. One more blow and the tilt would stop. The platters would stay where they were set.

I set the mallet down. The sound it made against the boards was small, final, the same sound it had made when I first refused to strike. My hands stayed on the table, palms open, feeling the grain lift and separate under them. The tilt increased. The roof-tree gave another inch. I felt the names reach the underside of my wrists.

The next peg would have to be driven by someone else.

The Table-Maker — table of contents