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She stopped at the back wall where sun never reached, where crusty scabs of lichen grew like the blemishes on an old man’s skin. Nurse scraped the stuff with her nails so a powdery substance crumbled loose. Dusty motes of it hung in the air, clung to her fingers. She licked it — neither vegetable nor mineral, neither alive nor dead. Nurse put her lips to one of the unnatural blooms and whispered—
Stone to Storm, Rain to Burn
Earth Churn and Water Turn
Flame to Flow, Wind to Rot
Fire Melt and Air Clot
Sarconsson, I call your name
I promise naught
A peevish voice leaped out of the wall. —Not naught! A knotty greeting. Not auspicious, so forth and whatnot.—
The complaint baffled Nurse, untutored in either spelling or punning. And the tone offended her. She tightened her lips, considered how much dignity was worth sacrificing.