The ferry would leave on time.
Lyra made herself believe that before she reached the ticket line. The public route did not exist to pause whenever her investigation became inconvenient.
The local officer showed the gate attendant the narrow inquiry reference.
“Jem Rook. Confirm the named ticket, please.”
Ahead, a man with an ordinary document case looked back.
Then he moved toward a different loading lane.
Lyra followed through the gap beside a fish-basket cart. The porter drew his load closer to keep its wet corner out of the queue.
Her sleeve caught against the basket handle anyway.
