Scissors at the Wick Bench

On House Via’s lamp-floor at Harrowby Sluice, Nan Gillow worked the wick-scissors through the last trim of the shift, each snip a small dry click under the glass. She had pawned her wedding shawl in the spring to buy oil, and every clean wick she trimmed was one the House would not have to buy again. Hesper Quill heard the clicking from the hatch and said nothing, but she left the spare oil where Nan could reach it.