The wire arms of Cale’s spectacles pinched the bridge of his nose, but he did not push them up. If he touched the wire, his fingers would show the slight, rhythmic tremor that had stayed with him since the night he climbed out of the Survey House coal chute with three stolen dispatch boxes strapped to his chest.
He set the black-cloth box down on the center of the recording desk.
The box was fourteen inches square, made of seasoned birch wrapped in black book-cloth and edged with brass corner brackets. A strip of white parchment was pasted across the lid, stamped with the red wax seal of the March Ledger and inscribed in dark purple ink with the classification mark: CONFIDENTIAL ACQUISITION ANNEX — SERIES FOUR.
Cale drew a small iron penknife from his waistcoat pocket. He inserted the blade beneath the wax seal, gave it a clean, quarter-turn twist, and sliced the linen binding tape.
Across the circle, Lord Auditor Orin Vane stood watching him with folded arms. The auditor’s posture was unhurried, but Cale had spent four years cataloging Vane’s correspondence; he knew the subtle tightening at the corners of Vane’s mouth when an unauthorized folio was produced in an open room.
