The dry staging shed beside the Courtesy Arch had the quiet, focused air of a railway parcel office ten minutes before the evening express. The damp river fog that clung to the outer stone wharves didn’t penetrate here. Two cast-iron coke fire bowls burned with a steady, smokeless red glow in the corners, throwing heat across the long pine workbench where the three visitors from Harrowby were conducting their final pack-down.
On the southern wall of the shed, mounted within its heavy oak timber frame, the Courtesy Arch hummed with a faint, musical shaking. The pale blue glyphs etched into the cold brass uprights were slowly fading, their glowing intensity declining in direct step with the master timers displayed on the three brass slates hanging from the top door beam. Along the curved footings. There, the bronze brackets were bedded into seasoned ash sleepers, a faint patina of green copper green rust showed where river moisture had touched the cold metal. There was no crackle of ozone, no smell of scorching heat padding. None of the violent spiritual recoil that accompanied academy summoning circles. It was the calm, audited rhythm of an open door that was preparing to close on schedule.
