Dream d1788-s: Flour on the Bridge Stones

I had a dream where...

I had a dream where we walked Marrowwharf from the river-end to the square and back, the west wind cutting through every open lane.

Rurik went first, as he does, threading between the market stalls with his tail held straight. Lano kept close to my heel, her nose lifting with every gust. Someone was milling grain nearby; I could smell it before we turned the corner.

The Bridgekeeper found us before we found her, standing on the river crossing with a wrench in her hand, checking the tension on the chain handrails. She wore a rust-colored coat and had the unhurried manner of someone who has done the same inspection a hundred times and means to do it a hundred more. The Builder crouched at the anchor housings without ceremony, pressing her thumb along the joint where iron met stone.

"Reseated," the Builder said.

"My predecessor," the Bridgekeeper replied. "She cared for it forty years. I've managed another twelve on top."

We thanked her and moved on. Small exchange; both sides satisfied.

The Miller was at his door when we came through his lane - flour on the threshold stones, the wheel grinding just inside, that warm dusty smell wrapping the whole street. He handed us each a small roll from a cloth bag before we could introduce ourselves. The Weather Reader turned hers in her hands, feeling the warmth, then looked up at the sky. "Pressure's been dropping since dawn," she said.

"Wind shifts by evening," the Miller said. He was already looking back at his wheel.

I gave Lano a small pinch of roll. "Mira," I said, and she took it neatly from my fingers without taking my hand.

The Clerk of the square kept her table under a canvas awning on the east side, ledger open, a stone on each corner against the wind. She was transcribing something when we arrived and did not stop. We stood and watched. After a moment she reached across the table without looking up and set out four small stones in a row.

"Sign of what?" I asked.

"Visitors logged," she said. "Four in the party." She glanced at Rurik and corrected herself. "Five."

He was already sitting on the paving stones in a stripe of cloud-filtered light, watching her with amber eyes. She looked at him for a moment, seemed to consider something, then added a fifth stone.

I wrote that down in the book of readings that evening while the wind changed, just as the Miller had said it would.