The second day of the eighth life broke cold and drizzling over the roofs of Harth, with a raw northeast wind driving ribbons of coal smoke and river mist down the cobblestones of North Quay.
Long before the sixth bell rang from St. Jude’s bridge shrine, the River Lantern kitchen was already warm. Jon had raked the banked beech-ash from the iron range grate at five, laid dry split birch on the coals, and filled the big copper kettle from the hand-pump so Elin would have scalding water ready when she came down from the loft.
When the latch of the back stairs clicked at half-past five, Elin stepped quietly into the kitchen with her braided hair pinned under a clean linen cap and her wool shawl crossed over her apron. She paused on the bottom step, taking in the sight of Jon standing at the scrubbed oak table with two sheets of parchment weighted down at the corners by salt-cellars and a brass pair of dividers.
“He came down after midnight,” Elin said softly—not as a question, because after nine years of marriage she could read the set of Jon’s shoulders across a dark room before he spoke a word.
