The chair had been built for this precise angle.
Felix eased his shoulders against the back, settled his feet, and discovered that the shelf really was where he wanted the cup. He had spent enough time remembering its position incorrectly that the discovery felt like a modest personal victory.
Sunlight warmed the porch. The kettle, which had survived more criticism than several regional authorities, supplied hot water without requiring praise.
Inside the workshop, a worker called for the last fitting.
Someone else found it.
Felix stayed in the chair.
Lyra sat on the step reading a letter addressed to her. She turned a page, frowned, and made a note in the margin. It had nothing to do with his reserve. He knew because he had asked, and she had told him to find his own correspondence to dislike.
Barnaby came through the open doorway.
