A scratch sounded against the cedar slats of the garden scullery door, three light rasps followed by the dry click of an iron latch being eased into its keeper.
Jon Hale slipped the ash bolt clear and opened the door two inches.
Sister Oda stood in the wet shadow of the plum arbor, the black wool of her St. Jude habit pulled tight around her chin to muffle the breath that plumed white in the freezing midnight mist. Beneath her arm, she carried a shallow split-hazel basket covered with a scrap of oiled gray sailcloth. Without a word, she slid through the narrow opening, her iron-ringed hem dragging across the flagstones before Jon set the bolt back into the oak post.
“The lane is watched,” Oda said, her voice a dry, rasping whisper that barely carried to the larder shelf. She set the basket onto the scrubbed cedar butcher block. “Two of Cael’s Oath Guards are stationed at the corner of the weaver’s yard. They carry blued iron lanterns with copper baffles, keeping the beam down on the mud to spot fresh boot prints.”
Elin stepped into the scullery from the kitchen, a single unlit rushlight in her fingers. Her gray eyes were wide and sharp in the dim twilight. She wore her quilted wool tunic and her leather work apron, the brass rings of her medical pouch clinking softly against her hip.
