of an old, old house, and opened it. “Just drop them in here. Sa-a-a-a-am!” he roared. “Come help me with these!” He turned back to Micah. “I’d offer you a hot drink, but I must get to work for the Turnip Poet. Here. Get yourself one at the Ink Pot; it’s close by.”
He handed her a handful of brass. And then the door was shut, and she was alone, stamping her feet on the cold stones of the streets of the University.
It felt like a lot of brass. But her fingers were too cold to count it. She shoved the money deep in her pocket. A hot drink sounded like a really good idea. Micah started looking for the Ink Pot.
The sun was still up, but the twisting streets were narrow, and the old houses hid most of the sky. Not too many people were about, and those that were, were hurrying through the cold, their black scholars’ robes clutched tight around them, their long scholars’ hair flying behind.
“Ho-o-o-t taters!”
A boy stood by a big tin that held bright embers with baking potatoes nested in them. They looked good to Micah, and so did the warm tin.
“Get ’em while they’re hot!”
She approached the fire, and rubbed her hands at it.
“How many for you, friend?”
A potato would warm her hands; but if she was going to spend the money, it would be better to be indoors. And besides, the cook had told her to get a hot drink. People sometimes got mad if she didn’t do exactly what they said. “Zero,” Micah told the boy.
“Zero? ’Zat your name?”
“No. It is a number that is less than one. Less than one half, even,” she hastened to assure him, in case he got the wrong idea. She didn’t like it when people tried to buy half a turnip, either.
“‘Less than one’ equals fuck off, kid.”
“Can I just warm my hands a little?”
“No. Not if you’re not paying any.”
“Fair enough. Can you tell me how to get to a place called the Ink Pot?”
“The Ink Pot . . . hmm . . .” The boy stroked his chin, as if he had a beard. “’Zat where the poets hang out?” Micah didn’t know, so she didn’t say anything. “Let’s see . . .”
The directions he gave were not very clear. He kept using street names—which wasn’t useful because there weren’t any signs—or else landmarks like “right by the bookseller’s with the picture of the dog in the window,” which were not that helpful either. But while he talked, Micah made all the turns a good pattern in her head, so when he finally finished she thanked him politely and set off.
It was not as close as the cook man had said. Or else the potato boy was confused. When she got to where he had directed her, all she saw was a plain door; a door set in a wooden wall with a low shingle roof. Was this the Ink Pot? It looked a lot like an old stable. But she could hear voices inside. Maybe it was a secret tavern. But where was the tavern sign? What if it was somebody’s house? Micah was standing frozen when a young man in a black robe hurried up to the door. He stopped when he saw her.
“Don’t be afraid, young ’un. Doctor Padstow won’t bite.” He opened the door, motioning her in with him to a place full of voices and warmth. If they didn’t have hot drinks, at least they had heat. Micah went in.
The little room was full of benches occupied by black-robed scholars with slates, all grouped around a hot brazier. In the middle, a man with black-banded yellow sleeves was drawing with a burnt stick on the plaster wall.
Micah stared. It was an eight-sided shape, perfectly divided into eight triangles. Around the outside, each line was marked with a letter a. The sides that made up triangles in the center were marked b. It made a fine pattern. But between each of these, a dotted line without a letter cut each triangle into two parts. Now, that was interesting.
“The question, gentlemen, is this,” said the man with the burnt stick: “What is the total length of the lines bisecting the triangles—Bisecting, as you will remember, Master Smith,” he said pointedly to the student who had come in late with Micah, and was clearly wrong about Doctor Padstow not being one to bite, “being the act of dividing in half . . .”
Bisecting, Micah murmured to herself. What a wonderful word for it!
“. . . then: What is their total length, expressed in terms of a and b?”
The young men all scribbled furiously on their slates. “Doctor Padstow?” One raised his hand. “If we were to connect the eight outside points to create a circle . . .”
“It would create a very pretty picture, Master Elphinstone; but unfortunately, would not get you any nearer the answer.” A bell started tolling, a huge, heavy sound on the air outside. “And so I’m afraid I will have to leave you to ponder the question until our next lesson.”
Micah felt jumpy, as if she had to pee. She couldn’t stop wriggling inside. She had to tell them, if they couldn’t see. “Squares,” she said loudly.
Doctor Padstow looked up sharply. “Who said that?”
“I think it was the kid.”
“Because you’ve made the inside ones squares, and they’re all the same, so to find out, you just add them all up!”
Everyone was staring at her. She really hated being stared at.
“Are you a geometer, boy?”
“No,” Micah said. “I have to go!”
She turned and ran.
Now the streets were full of people; men of all ages in black robes, scurrying about as though they were rats set free from a trap. The big bell must have released them. They didn’t see anything wrong with pushing to get where they were going, either. Micah really, really hated being pushed, or even being brushed, by strangers.
She tried going back the way she’d come, but the black-clad rats wouldn’t let her. She was scared, now. She counted backwards from two hundred and fifteen by numbers divisible by three. That usually helped. But people kept bumping into her. She couldn’t see where the street ended so she couldn’t tell where to turn. She was losing her numbers. She was losing her maps—
• • •
“You all right, kid?”
Micah looked up from where she was crouched in a doorway, her hands over her head. She didn’t remember getting there.
“Don’t touch me!” she said hoarsely.
It was a young scholar, almost as young as she was, maybe. “I won’t.” He drew back his hand. “Did somebody hurt you? Did your master beat you?”
“No.” Micah felt in her pocket for the turnip cook’s coins. They were all still there. “Nobody beat me. I just got lost.”
The young scholar smiled. “I did, too, my first month here. You’re from the country, aren’t you? I am, too. Can I help you find your way?”
“The Ink Pot?” Micah said without hope.
“I know it. Come on.”
This boy did want to talk. But mostly he was telling her about himself. It didn’t matter, anyway. The streets were a giant tangle of yarn, like when the cat got into Aunt Judith’s basket. It would take her all night to untangle them. Eventually, Micah told herself, she’d find a street she knew, and she could start again. But she’d probably have to wait ’til dawn to find her way, unless she spent money to hire a torch to walk her through the night streets, and Cousin Reuben would be mad. She definitely had to have a hot drink, first.
• • •
Riverside felt dangerous to an experienced hand like Ixkaab Balam. There were a million hiding places amidst the close-together, leaning old houses of stone, where anyone could