The silence in Sister Merrow’s washroom was thick with the smell of scorched animal fat, vinegar steam, and cold river damp. Korr Var sat behind the deal board, his dip pen balanced between his second and third fingers, waiting. On the table between them lay Pella’s handheld work slate, its rusted tin frame scratched and bent at the corners, the dark slate surface scrubbed clean with a damp rag except for the faint, ghostly gray shadow of erased grease-pencil figures.
Eren Tal sat on an overturned ash timber keg near the timber shores he had wedged into the larder doorway. He had a piece of dry sourdough crust in his hand, left over from breakfast. But he hadn’t taken a bite. He turned the crust over and over between his thumb and forefinger, his gaze fixed entirely on Pella.
“The physical exhibits are logged,” Korr said, his voice flat as an iron rule. “We have established that the bronze studs were fatigued pot-metal, that the baked-clay sleeve had hair-cracks from cyclic salt water stress. That the solitude valve was bound with charred animal fat packing. Those are load-bearing liabilities belonging to the College of Summoners and the Municipal Board of Works. Now we come to Section Four of the report: Pre-Entry Conditions and Operational Clearance.”
