The porter crossed the bridge without looking for Felix.
His load was small, inspected, and balanced on a frame that left one hand free for the rail. At the passing place he waited for a woman carrying a basket, exchanged a remark about the wind, and continued toward the academy approach.
Felix stopped to let him through.
Nobody shouted for more qi.
The repaired public span held its ordinary load under the posted rating. Its inspection notice had a recent mark in the appropriate place. The anchor coupler’s monitored service and the paid reconstruction had become a bridge people crossed while Felix was elsewhere.
He enjoyed that more than the view.
“Move,” Lyra said gently. “Other ordinary people want your passing place.”
He picked up his modest case and continued.
