The single sheet of folded thick parchment opened with a stiff, parchment snap that cut through the hiss of the copper lamp.
Len spread the document flat across the zinc tabletop. He held the top edge with the fingertips of his sound right hand. His left arm remained firmly pinned inside the linen sling against his ribs, the throbbing along his forearm settling into a deep, rhythmic ache under the weight of the cold air.
The letter was written in dark sepia ink, mixed with a binder that gave every character a faint, glazed sheen under the lantern light. The hand was disciplined, fluid, and high-born. The strokes of a broad-nibbed steel dip pen controlled by someone who had spent decades signing commercial seizures, transport charters, and death warrants without ever staining his cuffs.
Len read the lines aloud, his voice flat and deliberate, letting the words fall one by one into the damp kitchen silence:
Master Vey,
Word has reached my desk that an outside courier of exceptional enterprise has recently arrived in our province, bringing valuable medical relief to our neglected tram district.
I’m also informed that your official departure voucher was regrettably reassigned this afternoon to an apprentice warehouseman. That left you temporarily without accredited transit rights across our border barrier.
