Ivara Quill pushed the door open with the side of her boot, balancing an iron tea-tray across her right forearm with practiced, clockwork poise.
On the tray were three thick clay pot mugs steaming with dark, astringent roasted-barley tea. A coarse tin plate holding half a loaf of dense, grey salt-bread, freshly baked in the communal ovens of the lower depot. She kicked the door shut behind her, stepped to the pine table. Then she set the tray down with a dull, iron clatter that made the teacups rattle.
She looked at the folded linen packet resting beneath Cira’s hand. She didn’t need to read the address to know what it was. The three-horse red wax seal was a design she had seen stamped on two hundred route logs. Just then, she had been an apprentice under Ansett Rill.
Ivara pulled out a low, three-legged stool with the heel of her boot, sat down opposite the two siblings. Then she reached for her mug.
“You’ve read it,” she said, blowing the steam from the dark liquid before taking a cautious, noisy sip.
“Aye,” Cira answered, her hand leftover protective over the paper. “We read every line.”
“Then you know he was neither the martyr the ward council wants to carve on a marble slab in the square, nor the swindler your Highfield creditors described in their seizure notices.” Ivara leaned her single forearm on the table, her dark, sunken eyes fully empty of sentimental comfort. “Deren Vey was a proud…
