The brass Courtesy Arch in the medicine room back kitchen didn’t open its physical oval for the evening conference. Under the charter rules of the bridge, an audio signal burned up zero payload mass and needed no formal locked deposit. It was an open sound channel between two worlds, kept during the thirty-minute window. Just then, the Harrowby trades finished their afternoon work and prepared for their evening tea.
Above the arch header, three small brass sound trumpets—each stamped with the personal tool mark of a Harrowby specialist—shook softly in the draft.
Pella Rook stood before the central horn, Hal’s measuring tongs held loosely in her right hand. Beside her, Kel Dorr stood with his grease pencil poised above a fresh slate tablet. Meanwhile, Sister Merrow leaned against the bread table, sipping a mug of hot chicory.
From the left trumpet came the clear sound of a heavy-duty workshop: the rhythmic, sharp air hiss of an alterations steam iron. It was followed by the metal clack-whir of a heavy-duty sewing machine motor winding down to a halt.
“Can you hear me, Pella love?” Jo Saye’s voice came through the horn, crisp, warm, and slightly breathless. “I’m just finishing up a hem on Mrs. Henderson’s tweed winter coat. If I don’t get this delivered before six o’clock, she’ll have my ears on a toast rack.”
