?

  ?Jeanne's office was a room that remembered nothing.

  ?

  ?Grey light fell through a single window onto a desk bare of ornament. No portrait on the walls. No curtain on the glass. A shelf held ledgers, their spines uniform and unmarked. The floor was stone, swept clean, holding neither dust nor the memory of feet.

  ?

  ?Jeanne sat behind the desk. Her quill moved across a sheet of paper, the scratch steady as a pulse. The ink pot stood at her right hand, three fingers from the edge, placed exactly so.

  ?

  ?The door opened without a knock.

  ?

  ?Margaret stood on the threshold, planted on her heels, her breath visible in small sharp pulls. Her gloved hand still gripped the handle. Her face was a blade.

  ?

  ?"What is the meaning of this?"

  ?

  ?Jeanne did not look up. Her quill continued its motion.

  ?

  ?"Due to some malfunction with the previous golem," Jeanne began, "I have decided to suspend the current training for an undetermined period of time." The scratching continued. "The cadets have been notified."

  ?

  ?Margaret's scowl deepened. She released the handle and stepped inside, the door closing behind her with a soft, final click.

  ?

  ?"You know well what I am talking about."

  ?

  ?She raised her right hand. A document was caught between her fingers—folded, creased, already bearing the marks of having been read and re-read. She threw it onto the desk. The paper landed with a thin slap, skidding against the wood until it struck the edge of the ink pot.

  ?

  ?Jeanne's quill paused. A fraction of a second. Then it resumed.

  ?

  ?"You—" Margaret's voice caught. She forced it forward. "You asked for her to be transferred." The words came separately, each one an effort. "Why?"

  ?

  ?Jeanne stopped writing. She set the quill down beside the ink pot, the tip precisely aligned with the edge of the page. Then she raised her head.

  ?

  ?Her neck did not move. Only her eyes rose, finding Margaret's face, holding there.

  ?

  ?"By 'her,' you mean Cadet Aurora, I presume."

  ?

  ?"Don't play dumb."

  ?

  ?Margaret's gloved fist came down on the desk. The sound was solid, muffled by leather, but the ink pot trembled. A single drop of ink leapt from its surface and fell onto the document below—small, dark, final.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  ?

  ?"What do you want to achieve with that?"

  ?

  ?Jeanne looked at the ink drop. Then back at Margaret.

  ?

  ?"I am following protocol," she said. "Cadet Aurora is unfit for our training. And detrimental to those around her." Her voice did not change. "She should not have been there in the first place. You would not know how such a thing happened, anyway—would you, Margaret?"

  ?

  ?Margaret flinched.

  ?

  ?Her eyes darted left, then right, searching the empty corners of the room as if an answer might be found there. Her throat moved. Her fingers curled inside their gloves.

  ?

  ?Then her gaze steeled.

  ?

  ?She lifted her chin. Her shoulders drew back. She met Jeanne's eyes and held them, and for a moment the room was only two women measuring each other across a desk.

  ?

  ?Jeanne studied her.

  ?

  ?Margaret's gloves were grey leather, worn at the knuckles, stained with ink at the cuffs. The same gloves she had worn for years. The same hands that had once—long ago—held different tools, done different work. Her face had thinned since those days. The bones sat closer to the skin. A small scar ran beside her left eyebrow, pale as thread, a relic of a time Jeanne remembered and Margaret knew she remembered.

  ?

  ?Her posture was rigid. Her jaw was set. But at the corner of her mouth, a faint tremor lived—small, involuntary, there and gone.

  ?

  ?Jeanne saw it.

  ?

  ?"It is settled, then," Jeanne said.

  ?

  ?She reached for her quill, dipped it into the ink pot—a soft click of feather against rim—and returned to her report. The scratching resumed.

  ?

  ?For a long moment, Margaret did not move.

  ?

  ?She stood before the desk, her fists now loose at her sides, her breath shallow. The scratching continued. Jeanne's hand moved. Jeanne's eyes did not lift.

  ?

  ?Then Margaret spoke.

  ?

  ?"Martha is dead."

  ?

  ?The quill froze.

  ?

  ?The tip rested against the paper. A bead of ink swelled at its point, darkening, growing heavy. It did not fall.

  ?

  ?Margaret's eyebrow rose. A fraction. Barely visible.

  ?

  ?"You didn't know?" she asked. "Or didn't care?"

  ?

  ?Jeanne did not move.

  ?

  ?The ink bead held. The hand held. The room held.

  ?

  ?Then Jeanne's hand moved again—not resuming, but finishing the stroke, completing the word she had been writing. She lifted the quill, set it beside the ink pot, and reached for a fresh sheet of paper. She placed it on the desk. Aligned it. Dipped the quill once more.

  ?

  ?The scratching resumed.

  ?

  ?Margaret scoffed. The sound was dry, broken at the edges.

  ?

  ?"That's all you have to say?"

  ?

  ?Jeanne did not answer.

  ?

  ?"Martha wasn't the most agreeable person," Margaret said. Her voice was lower now. Rougher. "But she was one of us."

  ?

  ?She shifted her weight. Her left hand rose, wrapped across her chest, gripping her own elbow. Her right hand hung at her side, fingers twitching once—small, involuntary, there and gone.

  ?

  ?"Does her death mean so little to you?" Her voice dropped further. "Or did you forget where you came from?"

  ?

  ?Jeanne's hand paused. A single beat.

  ?

  ?"Where we all came from," Margaret said.

  ?

  ?The quill rested against the paper. Jeanne's fingers were white where they gripped the shaft. She did not look up.

  ?

  ?Then she moved the quill again. One word. Two. The scratching filled the silence.

  ?

  ?Margaret waited.

  ?

  ?The scratching continued.

  ?

  ?"Trying to play games with Giants," Jeanne said. Her voice was quiet. Almost lost beneath the scratch of the quill. "One ends up squashed under a foot."

  ?

  ?She reached for another document. Shifted it into place. Adjusted its alignment.

  ?

  ?"She knew that much," Jeanne said.

  ?

  ?The words were barely audible. They hung in the air like dust motes in grey light. Margaret heard them. The quill heard them. The room absorbed them into its silence.

  ?

  ?Margaret's arms tightened around herself. Her left finger twitched again—once, twice. Her throat strained, working around something that refused to rise or fall.

  ?

  ?The scratching continued.

  ?

  ?Then Jeanne lifted her eyes.

  ?

  ?Not her head. Only her eyes. They rose from the page, found Margaret standing there, held for a breath.

  ?

  ?"The transfer will be approved," Jeanne said.

  ?

  ?She dipped the quill. The soft click of feather against rim.

  ?

  ?Margaret's arms loosened. Her chest dropped. A breath left her that she had not known she was holding.

  ?

  ?"In five days," Jeanne added.

  ?

  ?Margaret's eyes lit. A flush rose beneath her skin. She drew a breath, deep and slow, and seemed to hold it inside herself like something precious.

  ?

  ?"Thank you," she said.

  ?

  ?Her voice was soft. Almost young.

  ?

  ?She turned toward the door. Her steps were light—lighter than when she had entered. She reached for the handle. Her gloved fingers closed around the brass.

  ?

  ?"Margaret."

  ?

  ?Her hand froze.

  ?

  ?The handle was cold. The metal bit through the leather. She did not turn. She waited.

  ?

  ?Behind her, the scratching continued.

  ?

  ?"No one is irreplaceable," Jeanne said.

  ?

  ?The quill moved. The paper received its ink. The sound filled the room.

  ?

  ?Margaret stood at the door. Her hand did not move. Her back did not move. The words sat in the air behind her, waiting to be carried or dropped.

  ?

  ?Then the door opened.

  ?

  ?She stepped through.

  ?

  ?The door closed behind her with a sound like a judgment.

  ?