Elaya Thornwick's hands shook when she wasn't writing.
They'd started the tremor three years ago — a fine, persistent vibration in the fingers of her right hand that worsened in cold air and disappeared entirely when she held a quill. The records hall physician called it scrivener's palsy. Occupational damage. Ten years of copying administrative documents in Ashenveil's Hall of Records, six hours a day, every letter by hand.
She was twenty-six, her handwriting was beautiful, and her hands were ruined.
The irony of this did not escape her.
