The Left Hand Agata Pern Doesn’t Trust Yet

Second frost morning past the arcade, the almanac’s own measure for the turn. On Mulov Street it means nothing new. The frost got here four days ago.

Agata Pern was at her river-side windows before the second bell, bucket between her feet, moss dark and heavy from the Karvel’s bank. She started with her left hand, the way the Guild Hall told her to. I watched her pack three fingers’ worth into the gap above the sill, slow, each piece set down and pressed and checked, the way a hand checks work it does not trust yet.

The moss kept sliding before it packed. Her left thumb has not learned the angle her right thumb knows without thinking. Twice a clump dropped back into the bucket. She swore once, quietly, the kind of swearing meant only for the window.

By the fourth gap she had switched back. Right hand doing the fine packing, left hand only fetching moss from the bucket and holding the gap open. Faster this way. The two bandaged fingers on the right hand did the holding and dropped most of their proper work onto the ring finger and the last one, which are not built for it either, but do it anyway because someone has to and the window will not seal itself with good intentions.

She finished all four gaps before the fifth bell. Stood up, flexed the bandaged hand once, winced, did not look at it again.

Two doors down, Praskovya’s wool chinking from last week has already gone soft at one corner. Agata saw it too. Said nothing. Walked home with the empty bucket swinging from the hand that still works the way it always has.