The blade specialist put his finger beside the pale line and told Iven to stop looking disappointed.
“It’s a good thing we found it.”
“I know.”
“You’re looking at it as though knowing ought to repair it.”
Iven stepped back from the bench.
The specialist was named Corven. He had crossed the upstream bridge before dawn, carrying a case of fine probes and a sandwich wrapped in a drawing he no longer trusted. Yessa had given him a clean table. Vara had given him the rotor notes. Iven had given him an expression apparently inadequate to the occasion.
Corven lifted the small mirror again.
The surface flaw continued beneath the edge of the blade. Once the deposit came off and the root was examined, it ceased to be a hopeful little mark that might polish away. It was a crack.
