The post runner asked for Neri Quill, and Renn pointed at her without looking up from his hinge.
For a moment she thought it would be another request to inspect a wet wall. The packet was thick, its outer wrapper stained by road weather, and the runner had the expression of a man whose next delivery was already late.
Then she saw Caldrin’s receiving mark.
She put her pencil down.
“Where do I sign?”
The runner showed her. She read the addressee and the departure mark before making her own, the familiar shape of her name suddenly requiring more care than usual.
The four hundred and eighty-seventh day. Eighteen days since the reply had left Caldrin.
The packet had taken the road it was supposed to take.
