Anatomy of a Rumor

Celia had ruled the western quay into squares before breakfast. By noon, a smear of salt had eaten through the ink at square twelve.

She scraped it away with the back of her penknife and drew the line again. The tide would leave that stretch of wall bare for forty-three minutes after dark. The old drain would be visible too, if her figures held. She had checked them twice.

Across the clinic room, Mira sat on the edge of the narrow bed, turning a length of clean bandage around her fingers. Dr. Sable had told her to rest. He had not told her what to do with her hands.

“You’ll wear a hole in that,” Celia said.

“Then he can charge me for it.”

Mira set the bandage down. A cart rattled past outside, and she leaned toward the window before catching herself. The glass looked onto the clinic yard, not the harbor.

Sable came in carrying a cup of broth. “You may go home this afternoon,” he said. “Provided someone stays with you tonight.”

“I can stay,” Celia said.

“I was asking Miss Vellane.”

Mira took the cup. Steam dampened her upper lip. “I don’t plan to be alone.”

That was close enough for Sable. He checked her pulse while she held the broth out of his way. His notes lay open on the desk, weighted with a bottle of ink. Celia could read only the date from where she stood. Yesterday’s examination had filled two pages. Ash had wanted a confinement order out of it. Celia’s commission had kept Mira in supervised care instead, though a commission was a poor kind of shelter. It had openings on every side.

When Sable left, Mira tasted the broth and made a face.

“Too much salt?” Celia asked.

“None. He’s afraid of the word now.”

A knock came at the door. The clinic porter stood outside with a folded paper pinched between two fingers.

“Someone left this for Miss Vellane.”

Mira put down the cup. The paper bore the dock office stamp. Celia did not reach for it.

Mira broke the fold with her thumbnail. She read it once, then flattened it against her knee and read it again.

“What do they want?” Celia asked.

“My shifts.” Mira passed her the note.

The dockmaster had removed Mira from the next five apprenticeship shifts, starting that evening. The office would review her fitness for dock work after a medical assurance could be supplied. No one had signed the note beyond the office stamp.

Five shifts. Celia counted them before she could stop herself. Mira would miss the winch repair she had been waiting to do, along with four days’ pay.

“Sable could give them an assurance,” Celia said.

“He said I can go home. They know where to ask him.”

Celia folded the paper along its old crease. “We should find out what they were told.”

Mira held out her hand for the note. “They were told enough.”

By the time Celia reached the dock office, the noon crews had changed over. Men crossed the quay with bread in their fists, leaving crumbs among the rope fibers. Two apprentices were hauling a crate toward the warehouse. One called Mira’s name when Celia passed. The other touched his elbow, and both looked down at the crate.

Inside, the clerk kept one finger on the page of his shift book.

“Miss Vellane’s work was satisfactory,” Celia said. “Was it not?”

“No complaint about the work.”

“Then who requested the change?”

“Dockmaster’s decision.”

“On what grounds?”

The clerk slid a ruler between two pages. “You’d have to ask him.”

“I intend to. First, I’m asking you whether the dock office received a report from the clinic.”

The ruler stopped. “I don’t handle clinic papers.”

That was not an answer, though it would do him little harm if repeated. Celia thanked him. His shoulders eased only after she stepped outside.

She found Jonah at the newspaper agent’s counter near the ferry steps. He had a pencil tucked behind his ear and an unopened packet of biscuits in his hand. He gave her the packet when she showed him Mira’s note.

“I was coming to the clinic,” he said. “The porter told me she could eat.”

“She can. The dock office has decided she cannot work.”

Jonah read the note without touching the stamp. “I’ve been asking where this started.”

“And?”

“A message went from Ash’s office to the dockmaster yesterday evening. Not through the public desk.” He folded the note and returned it. “The runner carried one to the clinic as well.”

Celia watched a ferry worker tip water from a boot over the edge of the quay. “Ash was at the clinic. He could have spoken to anyone there.”

“He could have. The runner says he carried sealed envelopes. The office says it sent routine notices. I haven’t seen either letter.”

“You can print the route.”

“I can print that a man carried envelopes.” Jonah rubbed a thumb over the biscuit packet until its paper crackled. “I can’t print what was inside them. Not yet.”

Celia looked back toward the dock office. The clerk would remember every word she had said and none of the ones he had.

Jonah followed her glance. “I’ll keep at it.”

“If you ask there, they’ll know Mira brought you in.”

“They already know I’m asking.” He lowered his voice. “That doesn’t mean I’ll give them her name.”

The tide window came back to Celia in exact minutes. Forty-three, less the walk to the western quay. She had planned where to set the chain, which stones would hold the pins, how far she could work without a second pair of hands. Mira had offered to hold the far end before yesterday’s intrusion. Mira would be angry if Celia gave up the work on her account.

That seemed a fair reason to go. It was also a useful one.

“I’ll tell her what you found,” she said.

At the clinic, Mira had dressed and was sitting on the bed with her boots beside her. She took one biscuit, then pressed the packet shut.

“Jonah found something?”

“A message from Ash’s office went to the dockmaster. He can’t prove what it said.”

“Maybe it said I’d grown fins.” Mira bit into the biscuit. “They’d still take me off the roster.”

Celia put the survey sheet into its case. “There’s a low water window tonight. I could mark the western wall while you rest.”

Mira chewed for a moment. “You said the drain would show.”

“It should.”

“Then go. Sable said I can sleep in my own bed. That’s hardly a shipwreck.”

Celia set the case down to help her with a boot. Mira pulled it on without help, bracing one hand against the bed frame. Her fingers slipped once. Neither of them spoke of it.

They walked to Mira’s room above the net mender’s shop. The stairs smelled of tar and boiled cabbage. Mira made it up them, but paused at the landing, a key held against the lock while she waited for her hand to steady.

Inside, Celia cleared space on the table for the broth Sable had sent along. She drew the curtain against the bright yard. Mira lay down facing the wall, her boots left neatly side by side beneath the chair.

“I don’t need watching,” she said.

“I know.”

“That has never stopped anyone.”

Celia opened her survey case. The brass chain lay in its coil, cool against her palm. From the window she could see a strip of harbor between the roofs. At low water, the weed would peel from the western wall. She might not have another clear look at that drain for several nights.

Below, someone called for a net to be lowered. Mira shifted on the bed.

“They can talk,” she said, so softly Celia almost missed it. “I just wanted to finish learning the winch.”

Celia closed the case. “Five shifts isn’t the whole apprenticeship.”

“No.” Mira turned toward her. “But nobody’s promised me the sixth.”

There was no sound answer to that. Celia took out her pencil and marked the five lost shifts on the back of her survey sheet, where she kept dates that must not be allowed to drift. Then she set the sheet aside and drew the chair close to the bed.

Mira watched her. “Your wall?”

“It will remain where it is until morning. Probably.” Celia laid the biscuit packet within reach. “I’m less certain about the weed.”

“That’s a poor survey report.”

“It isn’t one.”

For a while Mira stayed awake. Once she asked what time it was, and Celia told her. Later her breathing grew even. Celia kept the lamp low and sat beside her while the harbor water fell away from the western quay.