Nyx
The lamp carrier had fallen asleep beside an empty crate.
Nyx stopped at the storeroom entrance. A line of drool had reached his sleeve. His boots were still braced against the crate as though someone might demand he move it in his sleep.
"Tavin."
He woke badly, struck his knee against the wood and swore before seeing who had spoken.
"Sorry."
"For which part?"
He looked at his sleeve. "Most of it."
She held out the approach list. The festival stores supervisor had hired extra hands to check lamp positions and clear delivery obstructions before the public paths opened. Nyx's part covered the service approaches, not the value of the decorations or the honesty of everyone carrying them.
Tavin pointed toward a narrow shelf.
"Upper walk lamps are those. I haven't taken them yet."
"The receipt says you did."
He stared at her.
"When?"
She gave him the recorded time.
"I was here."
"Alone?"
"With the frame repairer. Ask him. We were trying to stop the bracket twisting."
