The morning river fog in Lowbank didn’t drift so much as settle like wet wool over the slipways. It carried the sharp, familiar stench of anaerobic canal mud, cold peat smoke. The stale sulfur rising from the unbaffled street under-road drains. At five in the morning, the cobblestones outside the disused ferry depot were slick with river grease. The tide was lapping within four inches of the lower timber doorstep.
Pella Rook sat on a three-legged ash stool beside the hearth in Sister Merrow’s kitchen washroom. Her boots were unlaced, her wool stockings stiff at the heels with dried river lime. She had a piece of oiled foam-stone in her left palm and was step by step working a crust of dried pipe animal fat from the brass hinge of her check measuring tongs. Her fingers were stiff with cold, the gristle in her knuckles popping softly as she bent them against the draft.
Across the hearth, Sister Merrow set down the heavy cast-iron kettle. The dull, flat clank against the stone range rang through the cellar without deep ring. Merrow didn’t speak. She reached for a clay pot of dried mint and blackberry leaves, tossed two generous pinches into the boiling water. Then she shoved a thick loaf of dense sourdough rye toward the center of the scrubbed pine bench. Beside the loaf lay a crock of cold salt lard and an iron knife with a notched horn handle.
