A Clover Leaf at Whinmoor

The news came up to Whinmoor on a carter’s boy with wet knees and a clover leaf stuck to his cap, which he swore was the whole of the message. Rhosyn Tarrant pulled the leaf off and laid it on House Mara’s tally book.

“House Clover,” she said. “Never heard of them. Their head is one Oriel Fenwick. They caught the link off the lowland flats, six hundred and fifty aboard, and charged them nothing a span. Not a drop.”

“Nothing,” said Corin Haddow. “So they burn on the gift and pray.”

“Same as us.” Rhosyn turned back a page. “We’ve had one link this Book out of twenty-six. Now there’s a new lamp-house splitting the catch. I’d lay off the night shift. Four men, four wages, till the Veil settles.”

Corin looked at the leaf a while. Every new House that lit up meant a thicker Veil at the next turning, and the Veil never asked whose lamps had gone out to make room.

“If Clover can crew a floor on nothing a span, we can crew ours on coal,” he said. “Night shift stays. Write them in.”

“In pencil?”

“Ink. They caught it. It’s forged.” He pressed the leaf flat between the pages and closed the book on it. “Somebody ought to remember them before the dark does.”