In the dim coal shed beside the transit overhead frame, Len drilled the boy on his cover story. Meanwhile, Bram watched the yard watchmen through a knothole in the timber fence. The freezing mountain wind whistled through the gaps in the siding, rattling the loose iron sheets of the roof with a sound like distant gunfire. The air smelled of damp pine, old axle grease. The fine hard coal soot that covered every beam in a greasy black coat.
Along the west wall of the shed sat an array of discarded equipment. Broken iron wagon axles, split spruce wheel hubs, barrels of tar, and coils of rusted wire rope. In the corner stood a cast-iron stove that had been cold for three winters, its pipe rusting through where it met the roof.
“What’s your name?” Len demanded, his voice sharp, unbending, and stripped of all comfort.
“Tav Petch,” the boy stammered, pulling the court guard’s cloak tighter around his neck.
“No,” Len snapped. His right hand gripped the boy’s shoulder with enough force to make him wince. “Your name is Tav Vey. You’re my cousin, third-class apprentice of the Tern Road Northern Station. If the gate clerk asks why your hands have lime burns, what do you say?”
