That evening, the storm clouds parted, leaving a clear, black winter sky crowded with cold frontier stars. Inside the taproom of the Old Willow Inn, a crackling hearth of seasoned birch logs filled the room with golden light and the sweet scent of wood smoke.
Tomas Reed sat upon a low settle by the fire, his boots unlaced beside him. Nessa Vale knelt on a braided rag mat, gently removing the linen wrap from his right heel. The puncture wound had begun to granulate with clean pink flesh. The swelling had subsided, though the deep scar tissue remained tender to the touch.
Tomas step by step bent the fingers of his scarred left hand against his thumb, holding each stretch for five deliberate heartbeats. The forearm tendon throbbed with a dull, familiar ache, but his grip was steady.
On the oak table sat four wooden bowls of hot boiled salt pork, stewed yellow turnips, and thick slices of dense barley bread.
Hester Quill was closing the brass clasps of her master field ledger, dipping her steel nib one final time to score the bottom of the balance sheet.
“The Iron Line claim is closed, Tomas,” Hester said softly. He took off her horn glasses and wiping them with her apron. “Fifty thousand crowns encumbered. Two thousand four hundred pensions registered. Zero unchecked debts. In thirty years of high appellate practice, I’ve never seen a balance sheet closed with such total exact cleanliness.”
