The low fog off the Gray Rush always smelled of decaying water-hyacinth and wet coal before the night watch sounded its first horn. Along the Lowbank boat ramp. There, the river lapped with a heavy, sucking rhythm against the green algae of the wooden support posts, the timber quays were empty except for two heavy cart horses standing knee-deep in gray mud and a boy scraping animal fat from a split barrel.
Pella Rook stood on the greasy stone curb with her boots planted eight inches apart. Her brass measuring tongs were tucked into the deep canvas pocket of her cart driver apron. Her palms were rough from morning lime-scrubbing in Sister Merrow’s kitchen washroom. Her thumbs carried the dry ache that came from pressing cold lead nipples into posture. The cold river air cut through her wool tunic at the collar. He carried the sharp, bitter-salt grit of upstream limestone washings that coated the lips with a taste like dry chalk. Two paces to her left, Senior Town Surveyor Korr Var adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses against the rising river mist and tapped the rolled oilskin tube tucked firmly under his elbow.
“The easement hasn’t been altered since the year of the three frosts,” Korr said. His voice was flat, dry as winter bark. He carried the exact rhythm of a scroll-keeper reading property boundaries to a deaf judge. “The town charter of Year Forty-Two gives the water warden independent rights of access to any stonework sharing a foundation outer…
