The ink in Sister Oda’s pewter well was dancing.
It did not shiver with the honest vibration of the north wind rattling the leaded diamond panes of the chancel, nor the rhythmic clatter of dray carts on the bridge road outside. It formed sharp, geometric ripples—concentric rings of black gall-ink that snapped against the silver rim with the precise, mechanical frequency of an iron tuning fork struck upon an anvil.
Beneath her thin-soled woolen slippers, the ancient granite floor of the St. Jude bridge chapel trembled with a low, continuous rumble that set the marrow of her shins aching.
Oda did not drop the bone stylus in her hand. She pressed her thumb firmly against the dry vellum sheet, waiting until the tremor subsided, before ruling a straight line in red cinnabar ink across the margin of the parish mortality register. Her gaunt, pale face remained calm beneath the stiff white wimple of her order, the iron ring of brass keys at her girdle resting motionless against her dark wool habit.
“Roric,” she said, her voice dry and precise as an apothecary’s measure. “The pine chests. The small one with the iron bands is for the baptismal rolls from the third reign. The large cedar chest takes the communion plate and the deed copies.”
