Three mornings after the hatch, ore carts still rolled in faster than Marrick could finish their entries.
Hajin was tracking the latest cart toward the storehouse window when something tugged at his shoulder from the rafters above. He looked up as the child dangled there by both hands, growing feet swinging straight toward the inkpot beside breakfast.
"Oh no you don't—"
He snagged the dangling waist before the child could choose the inkpot as his next landing spot.
"Beams aren't part of the accounts, you little menace," Hajin grumbled, setting him down with one hand braced behind.
The child jabbed a finger at the ceiling, wounded to the very depths of his soul, "Mine."
"Yours, huh, since when do rafters come with a deed?"
He lifted the split side of the tunic before its wearer could climb his arm again.
"Four centimeters in forty-eight hours," he said, holding the torn seam up for Vella's needle, "and the damn shirt grows by ripping itself apart."
