The cold autumn dawn broke over the Lowbank Turning Basin in long, bruised streaks of gray and slate-blue. It pressed the heavy river mist down into the narrow streets and stonework channels. Down at the waterline. There, the ancient Roman retaining walls met the gravel shoals of the Gray Rush, the air smelled sharply of wet stonework, anaerobic silt stench. The acrid vinegar bite of copper green rust crusting the bronze hinges of the old flood gates. Inside the canvas command tent pitched on the high levee, two hurricane lanterns swung gently from the ridgepole. Their pale yellow light reflected off unrolled linen building sheets.
Pella Rook stood at the corner of the long frame stand table, her woolen sleeves pushed above her forearms and secured with twisted wire bands to keep them clear of the wet inkwells. Her knuckles were stained with purple-black dark oak-ink. Meanwhile, the white dust of pipe lime clung to the seams of her leather apron. At her elbow, Hal Rook’s brass measuring tongs held down the curling margin of the main water chute height drawing. Their tuned tips pointed to the critical junction where the new stone bypass channel met the town under-road drain.
