The joints of the River Lantern Inn were never wholly silent in the dark hours before the third dawn of Flood Month. Beneath the floor timbers, the river shoved against the stone piers with the dull, persistent shudder of a dray horse leaning into a leather trace, while out on the water ward, the heavy iron chains of the West Quay timber booms groaned against the midnight current, and the river damp climbed through the lime mortar to condense along the iron latch of the pantry door.
Jon Hale sat upright on the edge of the mattress, his feet flat against the hemlock boards. Beside him, Elin’s breathing had settled into the deep, measured cadence of hard labor; her fingers, rough from salt-crock scrubbing and the lye vat, curled loosely into the hem of the wool blanket. Up the short ladder in the half-loft above the linen press, Nell was asleep. The little lame rook, Button, was nested in the crook of her wool shawl, its beak tucked beneath a stunted wing that had not feathered true since the winter ice storm. Every three or four minutes the bird gave a tiny, dry scratch against the ticking of her straw pallet, a sound no louder than a dry pea dropping onto woolen cloth.
