The city sat like an excrescence of masonry and bone above the throat of the world. Streets spilled away from the rim in tiers, each terrace clinging to the next as if resisting gravity's reminder that everything built here was held together by an agreement no one quite dared to name. At the lowest notch, where the fog pressed thick and slow, the mouth gaped: a chasm that was older than law and younger than superstition. People fed it their small economies of remembrance—buttons, names whispered into cupped hands, snippets of song—everything measured and weighed in the tidy offices set with wooden bowls and brass spoons. The Hush took what it required and in return steadied roofs and bridges, kept the wells from running thin, kept the brittle cartways stitched to one another by nothing visible but an accounting of loss.
Elis Thorne had been a caretaker of that accounting for half a decade. She had learned the rites the way apprentices learned to read: by copying, by returning the same strokes until muscle memory steadied the hand. There were rules: never offer one whole childhood at once, never press a name into the maw without first securing the token in a binding pouch, never leave the ledger untended through the changing hours. When the High Wardens called her to step into the formal mantle of Hushkeeper she felt, for a short and bright pulse, as if she were climbing into a warm, exacting machine whose tolerances she understood. The ceremony was small and precise. A rope was looped about her wrist; elders breathed a slow recitation that named debts and balances; she repeated promises she had made a dozen times in quiet rooms. Outside the chamber a crowd had gathered: mothers with laughter pasted thin to their cheeks, men who had worn the city's weather as a kind of badge, children whose eyes darted at the suggestion of spectacle.
On the stair she found Soren waiting, leaning against the cool stone with the kind of grin that tried hard to be an apology. He had always had a hand in the exchange of keeps, not by offense or theft but by an industry of brokerage—he knew how to value a keepsake's density. He took her hand and did not joke. 'You look like someone who has learned to hold fragile things,' he said. Elis thought that was only partly true. She had learned to hold them so that other people did not have to feel what leaving a piece of yourself felt like; she had never been asked to suppose what it meant to keep all that feeling in one place.