The descent into the lower works followed the cold grain of the hill.
Below the cellars and cisterns lay the old silver-iron drift, carved out two centuries past when the dukes of Orren believed the mountain held silver. The miners had found only stubborn pyrites, brittle slate, and damp pockets of black-damp, leaving behind narrow headings supported by rotting pine props and dry-stacked limestone bulkheads.
Noll led the way down the spiral cutting, his heavy stone limbs setting up a steady rhythm against the treads. Behind him, Tessa carried a hooded brass lantern, its shutter narrowed to a thin yellow slit. Prit brought up the rear, his woolen overcoat buttoned high against his chin, his pockets heavy with chalk stubs, an unsharpened slate pencil, and a wooden ruler.
At the second timber junction, Noll paused and raised his hand.
“This is as far as you go,” Noll said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “The baffles begin thirty paces ahead. If you step past the second archway, the mirror’s focus will catch your breathing.”
Tessa stopped, the brass lantern swaying slightly. “You promised no secrets, Noll. The whole point of the hearing was that the host does not bargain behind closed doors.”
