The sub-basement of the Ferry Museum smelled of ninety years of river silt, dead snails, and the dry, tickling dust of wet lime plaster. The floor was not paved with smooth granite like the high terraces of the summoners. It was laid with soft, red Lowbank river brick that had soaked up so much moisture over decades it felt like firm cheese beneath the soles of their boots.
Imran Bell walked with his knees slightly bent, his boots rolling heel-to-toe to avoid jarring the loose rubble. In his left hand he held an unlit animal fat candle in a tin sconce. In his right, a battery-free clockwork dynamo torch, its brass flywheel humming with a low, spinning whine every time he squeezed the lever.
The beam of yellow light cut through the drifting cellar haze.
Behind him, Pella Rook paid out the braided flax tether from a wooden spool slung across her chest. Every ten feet, she slipped a brass guide-ring over an iron hook driven into the foundation mortar. That kept the line suspended three feet above the wet floor so it wouldn’t snag on broken barrel staves or rusted ferry chains. She carried a second spare spool in her apron pocket, along with a pair of forged wire-snips in case a falling timber fouled the line.
