The unsigned renewal sheet lay beside Prit’s white chalk stub, one corner curling slightly in the warm draft from the grate.
Tessa Dene did not slam her hand down on the table or kick the bench. People who grew up in Mere’s lower lanes did not waste good boot-leather kicking stone, and they did not shout at landlords when the rent went sour; shouting only gave the bailiff an excuse to add a breach-of-peace fine to the bill. Instead, she walked back to the wicker workbasket by the western drain arch with the brisk, tidy efficiency of a carpenter packing up before a storm.
She checked the split-leather sheath at her hip to make sure her tax-exempt salvage bread knife was seated snug. Next she picked up her flat cold chisel, wiped a smear of wet culvert clay off its bevel with her thumb, and tucked it into the side loop of her canvas satchel. At the bottom of the basket lay four rusted iron hinge plates she had pried off the collapsed stable doors in the outer yard that morning under their salvage-split agreement. She counted out two, left the heavier pair in the basket for the fort’s half, and slid her two plates into the satchel with a dull metallic clink.
