Cira turned the second sheet of heavy linen parchment, smoothing the creased folds against the pine table with trembling fingertips.
The handwriting on this page was different from the first. It had lost its measured, calligraphic rhythm. The strokes were thick, hurried. It was driven into the fiber with the violent, stabbing pressure of a man writing against a dying lamp while iron rattled against a door. In the upper right corner, where a courier would normally log the date and station code, Deren had written only three numbers: 03:45 — Chamber Temp 104° — Chimney pipe Pressure Rising.
She brought the page to the sunlight and read aloud. Her voice tightened as the prose gripped her throat:
I thought that being a father meant hiding fear, Deren wrote, the dark ink cutting into the paper like an etching needle. I thought that if you saw me tremble, our home would fall down around our ears. So when the debts mounted, I spoke of easy roads, guaranteed guild bonuses, and simple office delays. It was arrogance, Cira. It was the terrible, cowardly arrogance of an older man who believes his children are fragile fine china that will shatter if they’re asked to carry an honest share of the load.
