A long, clear blast from Master Galt’s brass bosun’s whistle rolled across the Lowbank Turning Basin, echoing off the wet stonework of the retaining walls and silencing every hammer, trowel, and crank winch in the yard. High on the public laundry roof, Hesta right away hauled down her yellow working pennant. Then she ran up the broad blue rest flag, signaling the forced ten-minute pause to every watch post along the river.
Under the rules of the Courtesy Workshop, the rest interval at minute seventy was not an optional courtesy. It was a non-negotiable working checkpoint written in heavy dark oak-ink on the master slate. Every worker was needed to lay down their tools, step back from high-pressure channels, and sit down to rest their hands and clear their lungs of stone dust and sulfur vapors.
Inside the command tent, the deal frame stand table had been cleared of building plans and measuring tongs, replaced by three large iron kettles of steaming boiled tea, two wooden crocks of salt butter, and four loaves of dark, dense sourdough crust fresh from Sister Merrow’s brick oven. The rich, yeasty scent of warm bread mingled with the sharp, clean fragrance of drying pine shavings.
