He ducked inside the
hut, returning in a moment with a spindly table that was nearly as
tall as Keira. “Just make sure these are in order.” Untying the
cord, he licked his fingers with a vellum tongue and spread the
small, rectangular certificates carefully on the polished counter.
“Proof of residence. Proof of citizenship. Certificate of
Specialization.” The last prompted him to look at her more closely,
take in the runes stamped on the buckle of her satchel, the charms
hung neat from her belt. “A Spinner, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
Keira looked toward the horizon, resisting the urge to fidget. The
sun was creeping above the hills, reaching out to touch the sky with
weak fingers.
His
head bobbled in something that was neither shrug nor nod. “Huh.”
He fastened the papers closed and returned them. “London, you
said?”
“Yes.”
Fog
began to rise from the wet ground, thickening and swallowing the
surrounding fields. The gate-keep licked his lips and squinted
around. “The Hind in
Berth Four departs for London this morning. If you speak with the
captain, you may be able to negotiate passage.”
“Thank you.” She
bit her lip, uncertain if the information should be rewarded with a
pip. But he picked up his table and ledger and set them inside the
door, then turned his face toward the muddled sky.
“The weather's
turning nasty.” He drifted into the hut and gears screeched, then
the doors into the airstation grated open. “Be persistent. And
generous, or Hart will refuse you.”
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