The oil in Sister Merrow’s iron larder lamp was half water. It burned with a spitting, blue-edged wick that filled the washroom with the stench of charred seed oil and cold sheep fat. Outside, the rain had settled into the dark, sodden rhythm of a Lowbank November, washing the coal soot down the chimneys and turning the alley gutters into sluggish canals of grey sludge.
Pella Rook stood in the dark nook before the brass Courtesy Arch, her hand clamped around the walnut handle of the magneto generator. Her forearm was knotted with muscle cramps from twenty minutes of nonstop cranking.
Clack-whirrrr. Clack-whirrrr.
Every complete turn of the brass gearing sent a sharp sound pulse down the copper resonator wire that pierced the threshold of the arch. Above the top door beam, the small bell gave a dry, metal chirp every four seconds: tink... Tink... Tink.
There was no return chime. The circular threshold between the brass pillars remained as cold and solid as the back of an iron shovel.
“Stop turning the crank, Pella,” Eren Tal said from the doorway. He was leaning against the door post, a steaming mug of boiled elderberry water in his hand. His clothes were damp from carrying the ash timber in from the yard. His grey hair was plastered to his forehead with drizzle. “If she hasn’t picked up the tube after seven calls, turning the gears faster won’t bring her out of the dark.”
