Ines had worked in Master Corvo's shop for three years, and in all that time he had never let her draw a single line on a real map. She ground his inks, stretched his parchment and swept up the shavings from his quills. When she asked why she could not draw, he only said, "A mapmaker must first learn to see."
So Ines watched. She watched sailors come in, sunburnt and impatient, to buy charts of the southern coast. She watched merchants argue over which mountain pass was fastest. Most of all, she watched Master Corvo, who spent far longer listening to travellers than he did holding his pen.
One winter morning, a fisherman stumbled into the shop, soaked and shaking. A storm had pushed his boat far north, past the edge of every chart in the city. He had found a narrow channel between two islands that no map showed, and it had saved his life.
Master Corvo was in bed with a fever. The fisherman was leaving on the evening tide.
Ines hesitated only for a moment. Then she sat the fisherman by the fire and asked him questions — not just where the channel was, but how the water changed colour near the rocks, where the gulls gathered, how long it took to row from one island to the other. She wrote down every answer. Only when she had heard everything did she pick up a pen.
When Master Corvo recovered, she laid the new chart in front of him. He studied it for a long time without speaking. Then he took his own pen, signed his name in the corner, and beneath it, for the first time, he wrote hers.
