I balked, and not only because Cinder had twice used that slur. My tutors and I had passed countless hours composing poetry back and forth, but I had already humiliated myself in front of these important men. Their sudden attention struck all I knew of verse and meter from my mind.
What sort of poetry did they expect from an Easterling?
They were growing impatient. The servants were already preparing the next batch of paper boats. I blurted:
Sweet plum trickles from the bottle lip …
My mouth hung open. It was childish to derive an image from something happening before my eyes. The servants stared at me as they poured, wondering if I had finished. I groped for the next word, the next phrase.
Hearth fire warms our frigid bones,
New companions on the mountain road,
Come and sit, and
