A week passed, and Sorne remembered how to breathe again.
Jack sat alone in his study with the window unlatched to the brisk air.
The desk before him was crowded with wax-stubbed candles, a pair of brass dividers, and a leather-bound ledger whose pages smelled of ink and old sun.
His fingers had smudged black along the edges from turning page after page. Names. Occupations. Household counts. Streets and alleys labeled in tight clerk's hand. Four thousand, one hundred and seventeen lives inked into tidy rows.
Seraphina stood at his right shoulder in her sober gray dress, apron crisp, ribbon binding her hair into a simple tail that brushed the slope of her back. Her hands were folded, patient and steady.
The same calm steadiness Jack had come to rely on. She did not fidget. She did not interrupt. When he wanted water, she placed the glass.
"Is this complete?" Jack asked at last.
