And so, obscurely, it felt as though a swathe of his memories was locked away by the new ordnances. How often had they had meat, back when he’d been a boy learning at Kosha’s knee? What was seven into twelve or twelve into seven or however it might work? His mathematics weren’t good enough to work it out. He had to start thinking in terms of a seven-day week, except then he couldn’t look back on the way things had been and quantify the time properly. The School of Correct Exchange was levying fines and making arrests for people using the old calendar, he’d heard. Back when Ilmar had been a more tolerant place, and old Kosha and Yasnic and God had lived in three rooms above a tanner’s and had meat at least once a twelveday. He gave thanks, his knee-jerk reaction ingrained from long years of good upbringing from Kosha, the previous priest of God. Sometimes Yasnic could do with a little less God in his life, and here he was this morning, and God was smaller by at least a quarter. He had shrunk since the night before, and perhaps that, too, was a blessing. “It’s so cold.” The divine presence was curled up on His shelf like an emaciated cat, and about the same size.
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