At twelve-fifteen exactly, the pearl-white mist within the Courtesy Arch parted with a soft, settling sound like a heavy wool curtain falling into place. The first person to step across the granite threshold was Ada Morland. She didn’t stumble. She didn’t duck her head as if bracing for a bursting steam union or a collapsing header beam. She stepped over the ash sleeper with the firm, unrushed stride of an experienced tradeswoman entering a clean customer hallway on an ordinary Tuesday morning.
She wore her standard navy work overalls, freshly brushed of lime dust, the legs tucked neatly into stout lace-up mechanic’s boots with steel toe-caps. Her dark graying hair was tucked beneath an oiled cotton cap. Her left forearm was wrapped in a clean, light elastic dressing that left her wrist and calloused fingers fully unconstrained. Over her right shoulder hung her canvas tool satchel, weighing four point two pounds—containing two favorite adjustable wrenches, a feeler gauge, and her father’s brass measuring tongs. In her left hand, instead of an emergency pipe wrench, she carried a crinkled brown paper grocery sack.
Ada paused two paces inside the workshop. She lifted her chin to take a deep, measuring breath of the storehouse air. Her sharp gray eyes swept the room in a single, practiced arc. Taking in the whitewashed granite walls, the neatly lined up tool racks, the coiled red bell cords, the scrubbed pine floorboards, and the gentle steam curling from Sister Merrow’s iron kettle.
