When he opened his eyes again, he saw the familiar ceiling.
Living on a mountaintop had its inconveniences, but the lighting was good. Even in the evening, it was bright enough.
The silver-mirror reflections shifted with the setting sun, turning red as they scattered across the operating area converted from the Scripture-copying room, like flames poured into square containers and left to harden.
No one had dared move him, but someone had draped a blanket over him. The operating table had already been cleared and covered with a fresh white cloth, its corners smoothed flat, as clean as an altar after the offering had been removed.
Several figures sat in a semicircle around him, of varying heights. They leaned back in their chairs, drowsy, and hadn't even noticed he was awake.
The sensation of having lost track of time reminded him of his days in Wenden Port. After his first surgery, he'd slept for almost as long as the patient who'd been given diluted Black Fluid.
"How long was I asleep? How's the patient?"
"Dominic was moved to the lounge at noon and woke up before lunch was over. He was a little confused and agitated, so he's still under protective restraints. But the good news is that he can see well enough to recognize Feld, who's looking after him. The vision damage you were worried about didn't happen."
Kup stepped forward and helped him sit up. "It's already past dinnertime, but I told the kitchen to leave a meal warming in the stove. Would you like me to bring it over?"
"No, there's no rush."
His shrunken stomach gave him no indication of hunger. It seemed to have been suppressed, and even the thought of food made him feel nauseated.
His mind was caught between numbness and alertness. His