By the eighth bell of the morning, the heavy pine shutters of the River Lantern’s kitchen were barred from the inside with their flat iron drop-latches, and a linen meal-sack had been stuffed along the bottom sill of the scullery door to keep any draft—or any lingering stable-boy’s ear—from catching what passed around the scrubbed oak table.
Upstairs in the front attic room, eight-year-old Nell was occupied with a slate pencil and a measure of dried peas, teaching Button to drop only the split hulls into a pewter saucer while leaving the sound ones for the soup pot. Down in the yellow glow of the hearth fire and two tallow dips, six people sat or stood around the scarred planking where the Hale household had carved its bread for forty years.
Jon stood at the head of the table with his sleeves rolled to the elbows. To his left sat Elin, her bone forceps tucked into her apron string beside the chamois pouch holding Nell’s future milk tooth. Across from her sat Alden Bram, his charcoal-stained roofing slate resting on his knees and his unbroken iron brace buckled back onto his right wrist so he could compare its curve against the two sheared, blood-rusted halves of Relic #12 lying in the center of the board.
