At three o’clock in the morning, the Ferry Kitchen was wrapped in a deep, contemplative stillness. He was broken only by the steady, muffled roar of the Gray Rush surging against the distant limestone cutwaters and the crackle of seasoned ash logs in the back kitchen hearth.
Pella Rook sat by the animal fat lamp on the oak bench, her wool apprentice smock pulled tight against the draft that whistled under the heavy cedar door. On the table before her, Hal Rook’s brass measuring tongs lay beside her open field ledger, their polished surfaces reflecting the soft amber glow of the fire. Her fingers were chilled, but her mind was calm, clear, and focused.
Across the table, Eren Tal was step by step oiling the bronze threads of his high-pressure wrenches with a rag dipped in sheep fat and linseed oil. He moved with slow, deliberate care, testing each jaw shift with his thumb. Beside him, Jo Saye was carefully inspecting the wax seals on three rolls of emergency reed composite, her silver hair catching the firelight.
The air in the kitchen was thick with familiar, comforting scents. The sharp tang of pipe lime dust from the freshly whitened hearth bricks, the herbal bitterness of dark boiled tea steeping in an iron kettle, and the warm, yeasty aroma of Sister Merrow’s sourdough loaves rising under linen cloths by the oven.
