The rain returned to Harbor Gate at dusk, coming down in long, vertical gray sheets that drummed relentlessly against the glass dome of the Grand Central Assembly Hall.
Inside, two hundred delegates sat jammed into the curved oak benches that stepped up toward the central gallery. The air was warm, wet, and heavy with tobacco smoke, damp wool coats, and the tense, low hum of dozens of simultaneous arguments.
On the central floor, the gold-sealed leather register left by Lord Julian Vane sat on a red velvet cushion atop the primary speaker's desk. It looked small under the harsh electric lamps, but its presence weighed on the room like a heavy iron anvil.
Foreman Haddon was the first to take the floor, his work boots thudding against the oak floorboards. He hadn't washed the coal dust from his face or changed his worn leather apron.
