The yellow flame of Nessa Vale’s colza-oil lamp cast a sharp, steady light across the rough oak surface of the old pump bench. On the left side of the table lay Dennis Cole’s twenty-second slate leaf, its split-chisel letters carved deep into the dark stone: Day 22. The water has risen to our knees. We have shared the last crust. No man broke rank.
On the right side of the bench lay Volume IV of the Trade group’s internal commissary ledger, opened to the third week of Frost-Fall, Year 023.
Tomas Reed sat upon an upturned nail keg, his courier satchel resting between his boots, his steel-tipped reed pen dipped in fresh soot ink. Beside him, Nessa Vale held her brass rule across the columns of figures, her pencil making rapid, precise annotations in her building survey journal.
“Read the entry for Day Twenty-Three,” Tomas said quietly.
Nessa placed her finger on the thick parchment line. “Day Twenty-Three, Frost-Fall 023. Issued to Shift 14 (Dennis Cole, foreman, 80 men underground): eighty rations standard barley cake at four scrip bits. Eighty rations salt bacon at eight scrip bits. Twenty bundles animal fat dipping candles at two scrip bits. Total charged to Shift Account: one thousand scrip bits.”
