Lyra put her draft on the table.
Vera put a thicker document beside it.
“We’ve brought ours.”
The heading said ownership.
Lyra read the first page. Workshop plots. Gardens. Homes repaired by people whose names appeared nowhere on the old property plans. Contributions toward common lines, elected representatives and an end to the fear that another family dispute might put everyone on the road.
Willa sat across from her with both hands flat on the table. Harl had brought a bundle of old receipts tied with a bootlace. The laundry woman from the review stood near the doorway because she could not stay all morning.
“Thank you for stopping the collections,” Willa said. “We don’t want to do this again with the next Ashford.”
Lyra felt the answer form too quickly.
