The porter saw Lyra and reached for the side gate.
A worker carrying a receipt book caught his sleeve.
“Posted order.”
The porter glanced at the Ashford mark on her papers.
“They’re expected.”
“So are these carriers.”
Lyra looked past him. Two carts waited beneath the approach awning. One carried boxes wrapped against damp. The other held a small load whose owner was keeping it out of the sun with his coat.
“We’ll wait,” she said.
