In the rear washroom of the Lowbank cottage, the tin basins were singing. It wasn’t a cheerful melody. It was a thin, persistent, nerve-shredding metal whine that set the teeth on edge. Then it made the water in the copper kettles shiver with nested rings of tiny ripples.
Pella Rook stood in the center of the wet pine floor, her boots planted six inches apart. Suspended from the center ceiling rafter by a thin steel wire hung a six-inch hollow brass metal tube. A clockwork resonator that Hal Rook had fashioned thirty years ago to detect sound fatigue in weir gates. Below the metal tube, a tiny lead needle rested lightly against a revolving drum covered in smoked paper.
The drum was turning slowly by clockwork. It was driven by a brass gear catch that clicked with dry, clockwork care. Every three seconds, the needle scratched a jagged, spiky white line through the black soot on the paper.
“Seventy-four,” Pella whispered, her eyes fixed on the trace. “It hasn’t wavered by half a cycle since midnight. The whole foundation of Lowbank is humming like an iron kettle on a forge fire.”
Across the table, Sister Merrow was slicing thick slabs of dark rye bread from a loaf with a hard, crunchy sourdough crust. It spread them with salt pork drippings. The kettle on the small fire bowl was whistling softly. It sent forth the comforting, earthy aroma of boiled tea. “Eat your bread, child,” the old nurse commanded. He set…
