Imran Bell climbed back through the gallery window, his yellow jacket dripping a puddle of water onto the oak floorboards. He shook himself like a wet terrier, took off his glasses. Then he wiped them dry with a clean linen handkerchief that Tavi handed him.
“You know, Pella,” Imran said with a broad, infectious grin that cut through the somber air of the command post, “I’ve worked with town councils in Leeds, Bradford, and Huddersfield for twelve years. I’ve dealt with angry shopkeepers, stubborn landlords, and health inspectors who wanted twelve copies of every rat report stamped in triplicate. But those lantern beetles out on the roof are the only tenants I’ve ever met who submitted a formal complaint, evacuated the premises, and cleared the fire escape without demanding a single meeting with the housing board.”
A ripple of genuine, exhausted laughter broke across the room. Eren Tal let out a low chuckle that shook his broad chest. Kel Dorr smiled behind his glasses, and even Sister Merrow shook her head with a wry, amused smirk as she ladled fresh chicory into Imran’s mug.
“They have more civic sense than the High Senate, Imran,” Eren said. He handed the exterminator a hot mug. “A beetle knows that when the rock shakes, you climb. A senator sits on his velvet cushion and asks for a committee to study whether the ceiling is really falling.” The laughter subsided, leaving in its wake a clean, grounded warmth that dispelled the lingering panic of…
