The archive's back room was the one Isole had chosen for the sessions — small, windowless, warded against sound by whatever protections the Academy used to keep restricted research private, with a single table and two chairs and enough space along one wall for her to stand clear of anything breakable.
"First trial," she said, setting a blank recording sheet on the table. "Baseline duration. We're not trying to impress anyone yet. We're trying to get one honest number."
Vane sat with the sheet and a timepiece Lyra had lent them, precise to the tenth of a second. "Whenever you're ready."
Isole closed her eyes for a moment — not composing herself, he understood, but doing something more specific, the internal work of finding the exact ratio she needed before she asked her body to hold it.
