At exactly twelve-fifteen by the church clock of St. Jude, the brass Courtesy Arch in the boatwright’s staging shed emitted three clear, sustained chords that cut through the roaring thunder of the river like a cathedral carillon.
The green-gold soft glow flared outward along the fluted bronze pillars, bathing the wet pine rafters in brilliant emerald light. The air inside the shed shifted instantly. The oppressive, rotten-egg damp of the flooded river valley was cut by the crisp, clean scent of Yorkshire rain, machine oil. The faint, comforting aroma of toasted cheese sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. The heat rose five degrees within six feet of the threshold. That created a gentle heat draft that cleared the lingering coal smoke from the workbench.
Pella Rook stood at the receiving mark, Hal Rook’s brass measuring tongs in her right hand, her cart driver boots planted firmly on the sawdust-strewn flat stone slabs. Beside her, Kel Dorr held the dispatch ledger, his grease pencil poised to record the checked arrival payload.
The shimmering veil of emerald light parted, and three figures stepped through the threshold in disciplined, single-file care. Their boots struck the timber receiving platform with total power.
First came Ada Morland, commercial plumber of Harrowby, wearing her heavy navy-blue canvas overalls, her steel-toed work boots wet from English puddles, carrying her four-valve brass testing pipe hub in its padded wooden chest.
