The blue oval in Sister Merrow’s washroom flared with a soft, warm bright glare. Ada Morland stepped through the brass arch onto the granite floor of Lathmere. The familiar smell of the city hit her right away: cold river damp, burning peat, bitter chicory tea, and the sharp, stone tang of wet limestone.
Pella Rook was on her knees before the threshold, her hands clasped, her face pale with relief. ‘Ada!’ she whispered, rising quickly to her feet.
Before Pella could take another step, Sister Merrow moved between them like a mother bear. Merrow didn’t look at Ada’s face. She looked directly at the dark calfskin brace buckled around the plumber’s right forearm. The polished steel stays shone in the firelight.
‘Hold your boots right there, Mistress Morland,’ Merrow commanded, her wooden spoon pointing like a dress sword. ‘You don’t touch a bucket, you don’t touch a wrench, and you don’t lift so much as a teacup with that right arm. If I see your fingers curl around an iron handle, I will pull that red tab on your wrist myself and pack you straight back to Yorkshire.’
Ada let out a dry, genuine laugh that cut through the somber tension of the room. ‘Good to see you too, Sister. Don’t worry. I have strict orders from my husband and my doctor to keep this hand in my pocket. Where is the pressure gauge?’
