The rain had turned to a freezing sleet by mid-afternoon. It rattled against the high leaded glass like handfuls of dried peas. Inside the writing hall, the chill was deepening, creeping through the soles of Tomas’s boots until his toes felt numb and wooden. He had placed two more peat sods onto the hearth grate. But the ancient chimney drew poorly in the damp air. It filled the upper vaults with a pale, fragrant haze of blue smoke.
On the scrivener’s table, Hester Quill had set up her sight magnifying glass. A three-lens magnifying tube mounted on a polished brass tripod that had belonged to her grandfather, an engraver for the Royal Mint. Beside the tripod sat three small glass jars containing test chemical reagents. Distilled vinegar, a weak spirit-extract of oak gall extract. A small pot of bitter-salt lime milk used to stop acid burns on delicate skins. Beneath the brass lens lay a single, detached leaf of thick parchment taken from the bottom of the Exchequer chest, labeled in modern ink as Schedule of Carriage Road Tariffs, Year Thirty-One.
“Look through the tube, Tomas,” Hester said. He stepped aside and wiping her watery eyes with a corner of her wool scarf. “Don’t focus on the black lines of the heavy tax schedule. Look at the pale, yellowish shadows between the lines. There, the surface grain of the hide has been roughened.”
