The footsteps that followed Tessa down the gallery were lighter and more hesitant, accompanied by the distinct rustle of dry paper and the clink of a glass inkhorn bumping against belt brass.
Cale slipped around the turn of the corridor, his clerk’s coat buttoned unevenly against the chill and an oilcloth portfolio clutched under his arm. His spectacles sat slightly askew on his narrow nose, and his fingers were stained with walnut ink along the cuticles.
“I saw the tallow flame from the top of the stair,” Cale said, his voice hushed as he looked from Noll’s heavy slate form to Tessa on the bench. “I could not sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I kept seeing the casualty margins in the Third Regiment’s book. If you are conducting a legal inquiry, I brought the survey notebooks.”
“Sit down, Cale,” Noll said, gesturing with an oversized stone hand toward the dry flagstones beside Prit’s lime bucket. “Tessa has just asked our creditor to explain how it tells a falsehood from an honest word.”
Cale settled onto his heels, spreading his oilcloth over his knees to protect his papers from the floor damp. He dipped a goose quill into his portable inkhorn, ready to record whatever passed through the mortar seam.
