The ancient crypt hall beneath St. Jude-in-the-Mud was packed to the limestone pilasters with one hundred and eighty household delegates from Fish Street, Wharf Street, and the cooperage alleys. In the cold, vaulted chamber, the air smelled heavily of wet stonework, animal fat lamps, wet wool coats, and the sharp bitter-salt dust of pipe lime flaking from the Norman arches.
At the heavy cedar altar table stood Sister Merrow and Mira Os, flanking Pella Rook and Eren Tal. Between them lay the unrolled town map of Lowbank, its lower storage vaults marked in bold yellow grease pencils to indicate the eight Roman cellars chosen for controlled sacrifice. Hal Rook’s brass measuring tongs rested on the center of the thick parchment. Their polished tips held down the corner of the survey.
Sister Merrow struck the cedar table with her heavy ash spoon. The dull thud was echoing under the groined vaulting until the low murmur of conversation died away. ‘Neighbors,’ the sister said. Her voice carried the quiet, indisputable weight of thirty winters spent tending cholera beds and spreading kettles. ‘We didn’t summon you into this cold cellar to tell you comforting lies. We brought you here to tell you the exact truth. The warm mountain rain breaks the snowpack tomorrow. Then, the Gray Rush will hit this valley with sixty thousand cubic feet of water per second. If we try to fight that water with closed gates, the river will tear down forty houses. If we open the Roman vaults…
