At a quarter to six on the twenty-fifth evening—when the three modern specialists in Harrowby were home from their day shifts having their evening tea—Pella Rook turned the small knurled brass fine-scale on the right upright of the Courtesy Arch to open a narrow, four-inch audio-only sky-slit. Unlike a full physical crossing, an audio window burned up less than a hundredth of a ringing unit per minute. The three brass chimes in Yorkshire answered within ten seconds.
Through the shimmering hand-sized oval in the center of the washroom came the familiar warmth of three Yorkshire rooms. The clink of teacups from Jo Saye’s parlor on St. Jude’s Lane, the low hum of the kitchen refrigerator from Ada Morland’s house on Nelson Street where her nephew Ben was doing his draughting homework, and the rustle of map paper from Imran Bell’s study desk.
“Pella! You got the doorway back!” Ben Morland’s seventeen-year-old voice called out first from the background of Ada’s kitchen before Ada Gently shushed him and leaned close to her brass speaking horn. “We’re all three on the line, Pella. Are you and Eren and Sister Merrow all right? Did anyone get hurt getting it out of the College?”
