Lurrel’s hat contained a spoon.
It had been stitched along the brim with the handle pointing backward. Elian saw it across the ferry yard, stopped in the middle of a perfectly reasonable sentence and went to introduce himself.
The man beneath the hat listened to his sister’s message with an expression that became less patient at every word.
“She chose the better shelter?”
“She said you owed her the difference.”
“Of course she did.”
“She’s two days behind the estimate you gave her.”
“She said that too?”
