The kettle had stopped whistling a while ago, but Silas Orrick stayed at his desk drumming his fingers on a census sheet that had nothing to do with him anymore.
Outside, a merchant’s carriage rattled down the terrace towards the harbor road. It was easy to mistake it for an estate patrol but after countless nights of sitting by his window, he knew the sound of patrol horses too well to make a mistake.
In the corner, his leather satchel was already buckled. He looked at it, thought about checking the transit passes tucked in the flap for a fourth time and decided against it. Besides the fact that his tea had gone completely cold, that was enough checking.
His hand was an inch from the rim of the cup when the knock came. It came in three solid raps.