The telegraph room on the third floor of the Grand Central Junction had been stripped of its regional dispatch boards.
In their place, four long mahogany tables held a vast, three-dimensional naval chart of the continental coastline. Small lead figures representing coastal forts, coal bunkers, and harbor jetties were arranged along the carved blue perimeter, flanked by thirty dark iron tokens marking the advancing fleet of the Intercolonial Financial Authority.
It was two in the morning. A cold rain tapped against the high arched windows, but inside the room, the air was hot, smelling of stale coffee, lamp paraffin, and wet woolen coats.
Elara Vance stood over the harbor chart, a pair of brass calipers balanced in her right hand. She had traded her grey linen traveling coat for a sharp, dark wool frock coat fitted with silver union buttons. Her dark hair was pinned back neatly, her grey eyes reflecting the steady yellow flame of the overhead brass oil lamps.
