At Dren’s Fold, the cups stayed on the shelves.
The keeper demonstrated this by setting one on the narrowest board in her kitchen. It stood beside a blue bowl, a jar of salt and a chipped little figure whose original shape had become a matter of family argument.
“Before the repair,” Tey Noll said, “you could watch that cup walk.”
She folded her arms and waited.
The cup did not move.
Iven put his palm against the wall. A faint vibration remained, regular and low. He could feel where the new isolation joint separated the distributor’s working frame from the houses’ stone support.
A real repair. A useful one.
No reason to pretend otherwise because the technicians wore the wrong purchasing mark.
