They stopped the delivery cart in the broad, gravelled courtyard of the central Tram depot.
The former switching yard was humming with the quiet, orderly activity of a country freight hub under civilian management. Kester Holt, an older yardman with a leather patch over his left eye, hurried forward to take Barnaby’s bridle. His calloused hands unbuckled the harness with gentle, practiced familiarity.
“I’ll see him bedded in stall three, Mistress,” Holt said, nodding to Cira. “Fresh mountain hay from the Orchard flats, two scoops of rolled oats. A bucket of sweet well-water. He won’t feel a draft in there.”
“Thank you, Master Holt,” Cira replied, handing him a copper two-silver coin.
While Len walked over to the stone watering trough beside the blacksmith shop to wash the road dust from his face with cold pump-water, Cira turned toward the brick administration wing of the depot. Above the door of the former stationmaster’s office hung a newly painted wooden shingle bearing a red cross within a circle: Municipal Medical Post — Department of Civil Health — Free Wards Coalition.
She pushed the heavy oak door open and stepped inside.
The office was clean, sparse, and smelled intensely of boiled alcohol, dry elderflower, and carbolic soap. The large roll-top desk where the company dispatcher had once logged coal claims had been cleared of manifests, its polished top lined with glass bottles of amber spirit-extract, rolls of bleached linen bandage, and an iron sterilizing kettle simmering over a small charcoal fire bowl.
