The lane behind the River Lantern was narrow, paved with rounded river stones that had grown slick under the evening drizzle. Fog was spilling off the high willow banks of the weir, pooling between the stone foundations of the brew-house and the cooperage until the horse-drawn carts seemed to float on gray water.
Nell stood on the mounting block beside the wagon box, her hands steadying an open willow basket lined with fleece clippings from Finch’s weaving shop. Inside the basket, nested between two rolled flannel petticoats and her linen-wrapped cheese, Button preened his glossy black wing coverts with sharp, mechanical jerks of his neck. His damaged left wing-joint, pinned three winters ago with a silver bodkin by an itinerant tinker, twitched each time the harness brasses clinked in the gloom.
“He does not like the willow wicker, Father,” Nell said, looking up as Jon checked the leather trace hooks on the whiffletree. “He says it smells like the mud under the weir.”
“Rooks do not talk about the mud, Nell,” Jon said, checking the tension on the right trace. He leaned down and examined the iron tire of the front wheel, tapping the rim with his knuckle to ensure the wedge pins had not loosened in the dry autumn air. “They only talk about corn and shiny tin.”
