The rain off the northern hills hit the leaded glass of the St. Jude shrine with the rattle of dropped gravel.
Inside the small stone chantry at the abutment of the Old Bridge, the smell of drying cedar shavings contended with the sharper odor of vinegar and camphor. Sister Oda sat behind her low writing desk of river oak, her black woolen habit pinned at the neck with a bone bodkin. Behind her, through the iron grille of the sanctuary screen, the eternal votive wick sputtered in its saucer of clarified oil, casting pale rings of amber light against the damp granite arches.
Jon set the bull-hide ledger down upon the desk. The heavy leather thudded against the oak boards, displacing a small heap of dried chamomile heads that Oda had been trimming into a pottery jar. Beside him, Elin stood with her arms crossed inside the sleeves of her wool cloak, her face dark with the cold fury that had followed them across the marketplace.
“You brought the physical record,” Oda said without looking up from her mortar. She ground two dried cloves into fine dust with a pestle of river marble, her motions rhythmic and unhurried.
“I brought the proof you asked for,” Jon replied. He turned the heavy calfskin folios until he reached the water-stained voucher. He pressed the curled corners flat against the desk. “Look at the Harvest Month delivery.”
