"Then what do we do?" Rudra asked.
Nobody answered him. The heart beat once, slow and deep, and the hollow shook with it. Then came the long wait for the next one.
Rudra counted it. Fifteen.
He looked up at the great golden body hanging in the dark.
Last time there had been a knot to find and threads to cut. Almond had climbed up and opened it with a blade. Now there was only a dull gold shape, and a gray poison in every part of it.
"Ainen," he said.
Ainen was standing with his eyes shut, still tasting.
"I'm thinking," Ainen said.
"Think out loud. I can't follow you otherwise."
Ainen opened his eyes. He looked tired, and he looked like a man standing over a pot that had gone wrong.
"You ever oversalt a soup?" he asked.
Rudra stared at him. "No. I've never cooked a soup in my life."
"Well, I have. Lots of times." Ainen rubbed his face. "Once the salt's in, you can't pick it out. It's in every spoonful. You can't fish it out with your fingers."
"So what do you do?"
