Asa Pell was sorting nails when Iven arrived. She had three shallow trays on the table, a hammer within reach, and a pile of bent iron between her hands. She lifted each nail, judged whether it could be straightened, and dropped it into the appropriate tray. The rejected ones made the sharpest sound.
“I was told you came by yesterday,” she said.
“Olan and I brought copies of the pump information to the families. Yours is here.” He held out the envelope. “I also need to tell you something myself.”
Asa wiped her hands on her trousers before taking the envelope. The cooperative’s workshop was open to the lane. Two people were working at the far bench, one planing a length of timber while the other held it steady. Asa glanced toward them, then at Iven.
“Is this a conversation for the street?”
“No.”
She set down the envelope. “Then wait until I finish this tray.”
He waited. There were perhaps thirty nails left. She examined every one, tapping two straight against a small iron block and setting them with the usable stock. He found himself watching her hands because looking at the envelope felt like trying to hurry her. She had a narrow scar across the base of her thumb. He knew that scar from the days she had worked beside him; he had never asked where she got it.
