For the first time in the history of two worlds, three master tradesmen from twentieth-century Yorkshire sat at a scrubbed pine washroom table in the city of Lathmere. The scene was devoid of ritual majesty. Ada had set her brass Bourdon gauge beside a plate of cold turnip bread. Jo was unclipping her ratchet hoist while checking the floor for puddles. And Imran had unfolded his ruggedized tracking data end-post, plugging a multi-meter into the copper grounding line.
Sister Merrow set down three heavy mugs of steaming mint tea and a bowl of coarse brown sugar. ‘Drink your tea while it’s hot,’ Merrow commanded. ‘You have ninety minutes on that clock, and forty thousand people who don’t want river mud in their cradles.’
Pella Rook sat at the head of the table, Hal Rook’s service diary open before her. She looked at the three specialists. She felt the huge, grounding weight of the partnership they had built across an ocean of worlds.
‘We have forty-eight hours before the mountain crest strikes the Third Gate,’ Pella began, her voice steady and clear. ‘This afternoon, we run our first ninety-minute rehearsal at the Ferry Turning Basin. We don’t try to release Senn today. We practice valve sequencing, sleeve spreading, sound signals, and the messenger fallback. We test the system until we find where it breaks, so we can mend it before the flood arrives.’
