The harbour clock had stopped at four minutes past six, though the fog made it impossible to tell whether it was morning or evening. Along the stone pier, fishermen were mending nets by the glow of brass lanterns that never quite went out.
Clara adjusted the leather strap of her satchel and stepped beneath the archway of the Cartographer's Guild. Inside, the air smelled of cedar shavings, rainwater, and old linen paper.
Her master, Henrik, stood beside the long drafting table with a magnifying glass pressed to his eye. Unlike the parchment charts stacked along the walls, the map before him was etched onto panes of clear blown glass, layered one above another in a mahogany frame.
"Look at the third pane, Clara," Henrik murmured without lifting his head. "Tell me what lies between Salt Lane and the Foundry."
Clara leaned over the glass. Engraved in hairline silver ink was a narrow courtyard with a well and seven arched doorways. "The Weavers' Court," she said. "Except... I walked down Salt Lane ten minutes ago. The wall between the warehouses is solid brick. There is no courtyard there."
Henrik finally looked up, the lamplight catching the pale rim of his spectacles. "There wasn't at six o'clock," he said quietly. "Go back before the fog lifts, and count the doors again."