Ada Morland stepped through the shimmering sapphire oval into Sister Merrow’s washroom, her heavy steel-toed work boots ringing sharply against the flat stone slabs. She carried her five-kilo canvas tool roll over her left shoulder and a long, grease-stained brass torque wrench in her right hand. Her overall sleeves were rolled above her elbows. She had a pencil tucked securely behind her ear.
On the drafting bench, Pella had laid out a steaming mug of boiled tea and a thick slice of Sister Merrow’s sourdough crust on a clean linen rag. Ada took a quick swallow of the hot tea, gave Pella a brisk nod of appreciation. Then she glanced at the 46-character Courtesy Bridge slate where the duration countdown was already ticking: 24:58... 24:57....
‘Right then, girl,’ Ada said, wiping her mouth with the back of her gauntlet. ‘Where’s this boiling ditch? I’ve got twenty-five minutes before I need to be back in Harrowby to meet the British Gas van.’
Pella led the way through the kitchen crawlway into the tanner’s vault. She held a horn lantern to light the slick, moss-covered flat stone slabs. The shift from the sweet, bread-scented kitchen to the pungent, bitter-salt fog of the tannery hit Ada like a wet wool blanket.
