Hana Moss arrived with a notebook, a skeptical colleague and the expression of someone paying to hear a long answer when a short one would do.
“Where’s the handle?” she asked.
Tamsin set aside the transfer target sheet.
“This way.”
The public workshop smelled of warm metal and the damp coats hung beside its door. Tamsin had returned on the booked route in time for the local preparation checks. Her travel case stood closed beneath the desk; the station records showed the qualified crews who had worked while she was away.
Hana set a folded customer slip beside her notebook.
“That’s my other audience,” she said. “He wants his sheets back by tonight and believes the weather is part of my service.”
“Is it?”
