A pirate is held in a basement jail with nothing for company but silent, disinterested guards—one sleeps his shift away, the other reads—and a terrified girl who leaves him food. After a few days, a new girl arrives to deliver his provisions. She is not afraid of him and leaves him watered wine instead of water—“bold and coy and clever” (5). The two soon strike up a silent companionship, sharing their food and water without conversation. The night before his execution, he twirls the girl’s hair between his fingers. “Tell me a story,” she asks the pirate (3). He agrees.

In a city beneath the earth, there is a temple devoted to stories. It is a place of pilgrimage to some; others devote themselves to one of three paths: acolyte, guardian, or keeper. One young woman chooses the path of acolyte. She spends a month in isolation in a soundproof room, a test run for the silence that comes with the lifelong vocation of acolyte. It is her last chance to use her voice, and those who use their voices more tend to have more success: “Those who scream and cry and wail, those who talk to themselves for hours […] are ready when the time comes to proceed with their initiation” (7).