The sound came not from the dripping drainage sump, but from the granite well of the spiral stairs eighty feet to the west: the sharp, rhythmic click of iron-shod heel-plates striking dry stone. It was a measured, steady, unrushed pace. The gait of a man who owned the building above and viewed the dark foundations below as an unpleasant cellar beneath his private pantry.
Tomas held up his sound right hand in an immediate, silent signal. Olla froze instantly, her bone folder poised two inches above the thick parchment roll. Hester Quill didn’t panic. She step by step gathered her calculating beads, slipped her inkpot into its brass gimbal socket. Then she pulled her woolen shawl tighter around her shoulders. Her eyes turned toward the archway with the cold, evaluating gaze of a veteran trial lawyer watching an opposing advocate enter the courtroom.
Tomas moved with swift, silent economy. He didn’t try to roll the entire nine-foot sheepskin in a wild rush. Instead, he and Olla drew the oiled silk outer wrapper over the face of the document, shielding the carbon ink from any stray spark or candle soot, while keeping their bodies set between the stone base and the dark vaulted hall. Tomas adjusted the calfskin strap of his left wrist brace. He tested the tension of the buckle against his scarred forearm. His grip was limited to sixty-five percent of normal strength. But his balance was centered, his heavy cowhide boots planted firmly on the dry chestnut thin…
