There were two things on the bottom step on the morning of the sixteenth, and only one of them was Trewin’s.
The scythe blade had come back a second time with the curl out of it and a fresh nick near the heel, which meant it had met a stone and not a fault in the steel, and Aurel put it in the vice with the satisfaction of a man given a problem he could finish before breakfast. The other was a kettle. It had a hole in the bottom the size of a thumbnail and a handle riveted on by somebody in a hurry thirty years ago, and it did not belong to the forge.
“Chandler’s,” Dabrel said. “I’ve made enquiries, sir, and I’ve made them the way you said, which is to say I asked one person once and let her enjoy it.”
“His wife will not come…
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