The apprentices had been dismissed to the garden terrace for their midday bread and cider. That left the great hall of the archive in quiet, sunlit peace.
Tomas Reed had set his ash pack-frame on a stout wooden bench beside the hearth. There, Sile Rook was carefully unpacking the four Master Audit folios. He laid them upon clean felt cloths on the center table with the respectful care of an old soldier handling the flags of a victorious regiment.
Tomas walked to the wide casement window where Mirelle Voss stood looking out over the carp ponds.
On the doorstep between them, resting on its white linen cloth beside a small jar of dried lavender, sat the clockwork tin bird.
Tomas reached into the innermost pocket of his leather vest, brought out the small tin snuff-box that Nessa had given him in Crown-Reach. Then she opened the lid. He removed the small, polished brass pinion gear with twelve fine teeth. He was wrapped in its bed of clean sheep’s wool, and laid it upon the windowsill beside the bird.
“The third wheel,” Tomas said. “Mirelle, I carried it four hundred miles from the capital. But when I listened to the bird singing as we crossed the bridge, the third note was still silent.”
