The spoons lay on a clean cloth beneath the public road clerk’s awning.
Six of them. Four long, two short. Each handle bore an Ashford sun worn soft by years of washing.
Lyra recognized the pattern. The household used it for ordinary dining, reserving grander silver for people expected to notice.
The deputy steward pointed at the nearest handle.
“Estate property.”
“My wages,” Mera said.
Behind her, the larger wagon waited beside the carrier yard. The family remained together under the shelter, but nobody had been allowed to board.
Felix stood with the driver, holding a fresh bill between two fingers.
