The bronze bell of the central star tower struck its twelfth and final note, the deep chime dissolving into the freezing mountain mist that swirled between the high iron rafters of the tram shed.
Len Vey stood beside the zinc prep table, his boots planted firm on the damp flat stone slabs, his sound right hand resting on the ash shaft of his sounding pole. Beside him, the brass swinging weight of the tram dispatch control valve completed its measured swing, clicking against the gear catch wheel with dry, clockwork perfection. The clockwork hands pointed straight up at the numeral twelve, unbending and indifferent to the twelve years of darkness outside the stone walls.
His qualitative progress band didn’t flicker.
Beneath his unbuttoned linen shirt, the pale violet line over his chest bone remained cool, faint, and dormant, resting quietly at thirty-five percent of its capacity. There was no internal heat, no sudden dizziness, and no golden slate flashing its office receipt before his eyes. The second sky-high midnight inside Rookvale had passed into history. His fifth level courier baseline remained whole. It was locked into his bones and sinews.
Across the table, Ivara Quill pulled the green-flamed copper drafting lamp closer to Deren Vey’s open survey journal. Her single right hand reached to the back cover of the notebook, carefully unfolding a large, double-thick sheet of gridded drafting thick parchment that had been glued to the inner binding with horsehide glue.
