High atop the flat tarred roof of the public washhouse. There, the laundresses dried their linen sheets on windy mornings, Head Laundress Hesta stood behind the stone low roof wall, a brass spyglass held firmly to her eye. The pre-dawn drizzle was cold and sharp. It whipped her wool head-shawl against her weathered cheeks. But her gaze never wavered from the dark zig-zag of the cliff stair three hundred feet above.
Beside her, young Tavi huddled in the lee of the chimney stack, his wicker cage of lantern beetles held beneath his wool smock to keep the insects warm. In his hand, he gripped the halyard of the emergency semaphore gallows, his fingers stiff with the cold.
‘There they’re,’ Hesta muttered, her sharp voice cutting through the hiss of the rain. ‘Twelve academy wardens in black leather helmets, carrying iron truncheons and a heavy four-wheeled hand-trolley. Captain Kray is leading them down the seventh landing.’
Tavi leaned forward, squinting through the gloom. ‘Miss Hesta... Are they coming to help with the sandbags?’
‘They don’t carry iron truncheons to shovel sand, boy,’ Hesta answered grimly, lowering her glass. ‘They’re coming for Candidate Rook’s brass arch. Flash the lanterns, Tavi! Two crimson flashes, then hold the steady red!’
