The final ten minutes of the ninety-minute overtime drill unfolded with the calm, rehearsed care of a seasoned ship’s crew dropping anchor in a home port. Down on the levee embankment, Master Galt blew two short, crisp whistle blasts. The crank winch teams threw their weight against the ash rope winch bars, easing Gate One down notch by notch until the greenheart timber leaf met the granite doorstep plate with a muffled, satisfying thud.
The roaring high-pressure rush through the stone channels gradually faded into a peaceful, rhythmic gurgling as the water drained away toward the estuary. The damp mist over the basin was parting under a freshening westerly breeze. It showed the clean, swept flat stone slabs of the wharves and the dark, wet stonework of the newly shored eastern water chute.
Inside Sister Merrow’s washhouse, the Courtesy Arch stood gleaming in the corner between the laundry boilers, its brass uprights humming with that deep, clean deep ring that signaled the approaching end of the time window. On the header slate, the lit up countdown counter flickered with steady care: 01m 15s... 01m 14s... 01m 13s.
Ada Morland stood beside the arch, her heavy leather tool kit packed and buckled, her brass tone check rod secured in its felt-lined carrying case. Her steel-toed boots were clean of mud, and her navy twill overalls were neatly brushed. Beside her stood Jo Saye. It held her rolled wrap of sewing tools and spare linen templates. Imran Bell, whose sample satchel clicked…
