The iron upkeep hand-car rattled to a halt at the terminus of the drainage siding, its rusted wheel-flanges grinding against the bumper blocks with a dull, iron thud that echoed into the rafters of Sub-Basement Twelve.
Ren Vale was the first to step onto the flat stone slabs. His boots were sodden with cold water tank water, his lambskin apron stained with streaks of black grease and stopped potash lye. But his grip on his ivory mammoth bone awl never loosened. He turned right away. He lifted Mira down from the flatbed before she could place her weight on her soaked skirts. She carried her across the uneven floorplates to the warm outer edge of the hearth.
Brother Ren was waiting by the threshold of the bindery.
The Disgraced Saint’s gaunt, gentle face was lit up by the warm, smoky glow of the hearth fire he had built in their absence. He had dragged three clean wool blankets from an old storage chest, hanging them on iron tenter-hooks near the flames to warm. Without a word of hearing, without asking about the gunfire or the bells that had shook through the floorplates, Brother Ren wrapped Mira in a heavy mantle of dry homespun wool.
