She did not ride back to the estate right away. Instead, she stayed on foot and kept walking, hood low, the token warm against her palm inside the pouch.
The streets thinned from bright to narrow and damp, the sounds of market calls giving way to the slap of laundry against boards and the creak of rope over pulleys.
When the scent of old yeast and wet rope slid into the air, she knew she was close.
Tally Street sagged under its own age. Beams leaned and windows were painted with grime. At the end of the row, a cracked signboard hung from two rusted hooks: a bird with a chipped beak and a rubbed-out eye.
The Stone Jackdaw.
She didn't go straight in. She turned past the door and cut down the next alley, where a rain barrel stood green at the lip. She stood in the damp shade and watched the inn's door through a slice of space.
