A single animal fat lantern burned in its iron sconce above the washroom slate desk. It cast sharp shadows across the white chalk columns of tomorrow’s scheduled crossings. The cellar felt cavernous in the dusk, the only sounds the distant lap of the Gray Rush against the boat ramp and the even, unrushed tick-tick-tick of the brass gear catch mounted above the Courtesy Arch. Pella Rook stood before the booking board with a thick stick of red raddle chalk held between her thumb and forefinger.
Her stomach was hollow with the cold, sobering weight of command. But her hand didn’t waver as she looked at the three high-priority entries written on the slate: Jo Saye’s twelve-thirty fitting for Korr Var’s waterproof check coat, Ada Morland’s noon check on the cooperage relief pipe hub, and Imran Bell’s follow-up survey of the Roman basin. Every one of those tasks mattered to the defense of Lowbank. Every one of them carried an unchecked risk to a friend’s life.
In the lecture halls of the College of Summoners, masters routinely hidden load-bearing uncertainties behind Latin formulas so the work schedule would never falter. That exact institutional vanity had produced the cracked foundation piers of the Hollow Crown and the scalded mortar of the Southern Dungeon. If Pella allowed a single Yorkshire specialist to step across the threshold while Corvin’s demolition question remained unanswered, she was no different from Davin Sorell.
