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The first day taught Mia's team the usual: who runs a little too hot at noon and needs a push to drink; whose shoulders slope when no one is watching and needs a joke; whose knots are beautiful and whose are the kind you cut instead of trusting. She learned what she already knew and confirmed it. Her picks were good. They were quiet when quiet was the right tool. They laughed with their teeth shut when sound would carry. They walked through water without making a splash big enough to interest a kingfisher.
At the first mirror post — a square of mica sunk into the base of an old pillar from a kingdom that was important to other people long before this one — she put her hand to the copper ring and took the pulse. It came back even and shallow. Om slid the lens into its slot. Hoorius' clerk — a thin man whose eyebrows had learned to be more expressive than his mouth — wrote down what Om said and then sent back two words: Proceed. Leash firm.
