A bone-imp steward did not panic when an audit went bad; he turned the page to an older disaster.
Prit stood upon the flagstones of the Grand Hall, the square stick of red hazard chalk held between his fingers like an unlit sulfur match. His frayed tailcoat hung straight down his ribs as he flattened the stiff parchment rubbing across the limestone bench, weighting the curled hem with his iron slate. Twenty-two years had passed since the charcoal had dried on that sheet, but sheepskin pressed against cold iron kept its stubborn memory.
“Keep the tin strip level, Miss Dene,” Prit instructed. “Do not tilt the tallow dip. If grease spatters the facet, the reflection will cloud the groove depth.”
Tessa Dene stood upon the stone curb beneath Noll Vey’s niche, her split work boots braced against the masonry. Her knuckles were pale where she gripped the polished tin mirror strip, sliding its edge two inches into the dark mortise behind Noll’s blue stone. Below her arm, the yellow tallow flame cast an amber beam across the back of the crystal.
“I have it steady,” Tessa muttered. “It sits right in the center of his back.”
Through Prit’s hollow eye sockets, the sight was unmistakable.
