Pella sat at the long deal table before her father’s brass twisting force telltale, her fingertips resting lightly on the cold copper wire that ran out the window toward the Third Gate. Beside her, Corvin Hest held a silver tuning fork, striking the prongs against the heel of his boot and touching the shaking stem to the wire end-post.
On the far side of the gorge, thirty yards away in the Third Gate control house, the brass sound chest muscle responded with a faint, clear hum. Corvin checked his stopwatch with clean, steady care. “Three-tenths of a second, Pella. The extra forty yards of wire through the roof loops introduces a measurable sound propagation lag. When you speak to Senn, you’ll hear your own voice bounce back from the Crown’s extraction coils before the spirit’s true response arrives.”
“Like speaking down an empty well,” Pella said, her eyes fixed on the shaking telltale needle.
“Exactly like a well,” Corvin confirmed. “If you speak too quickly, Senn’s reply will blur into the Crown’s forced echoes. You won’t be able to tell whether you’re hearing the river’s true memory or Sorell’s artificial command loop. You must speak at half-speed, pause after every phrase, and wait for the needle to settle before you accept a response.” Pella nodded, adjusting her cart driver apron. In her pocket, her measuring tongs felt heavy, cold, and solid. The machinery was tuned. The latency was measured. The time for discussion was over.
