The eight-foot scrubbed deal dining table in the center of the Old Ferry Storehouse had become the undisputed anchor of the room. The autumn sun poured down through the high riverward high window row windows, bathing the dark indigo linen runner, the celadon clay pot bowls, and the steaming pewter ladles in brilliant, golden warmth. Outside, the Gray Rush flowed through its unchoked cutwater piers with a steady, peaceful murmur. He held at eight point seven feet above mean. The exact, ancient water level Hal Rook had marked thirty years ago.
There was no emergency. There were no alarms ringing from the High Terrace. No water was boiling under Mira Os’s floorboards. No backup drain tube was tearing the bedrock apart. There was only the clink of pewter spoons against clay pot, the rich, savory steam of Sister Merrow’s braised beef stew, and nine people sitting down together in the middle of a working day.
Tavi stood by the hearth. He watched with breathless excitement as the three guests approached the chairs he had built with his own hands.
Jo Saye walked straight to the crimson ladder-back chair in the middle. She rested her hand on the steam-bent back, her fingers finding the slight, dried lacquer drip on the left spindle where the paint had run. She pulled the chair out, smoothed her tweed skirt, and sat down. As she leaned back, the curved middle slat caught her lower-back spine with an exact, supportive pressure that drew a long, luxurious…
