The purple postal ink had the sharp, iron tang of crushed oak galls, burning acid, and lavender oil. The distinctive chemical scent of the Northern Postal Guild that Len had known since he was six years old.
He dipped the fine steel nib into the heavy clay inkwell with his sound right hand. He wiped the excess against the glazed rim. Beneath the green light of the copper lantern, the raw, unwhitened linen paper lay flat against the zinc tabletop, its surface slightly rough, stringy, and absorbent.
Across the room, the kitchen had settled into its tense, late-night rhythm. Ivara was securing the leather harness straps on the master pressure gauge case. She tested the brass buckles with her teeth. Bram was sitting by the hearth, checking the metal tube springs on his service carbine with a short steel punch. And Doma stood with her arms crossed over her apron, watching Len’s hand with quiet, watchful intensity.
Len took a slow breath under the discipline of Long Breath, steadying his pulse. His left arm rested in its linen sling, the eight horsehair stitches holding firm, throbbing with a dull, manageable ache that radiated up into his shoulder joint. He touched the nib to the top of the thick parchment.
