When they returned to the old council hall, two Engineering Bureau workers were still outside the North Gate, installing temporary iron mesh over the copper air duct.
Lorne marked the boundary stone's location, the opening beneath the gray stone, the direction of the copper duct, and the signs of recent maintenance on the map. Once inside, he went straight to the Disaster Affairs Office's registration room.
Lutia followed him through the lobby, which was piled with damp coats, and into a long, narrow room in the back.
There were six tables inside.
Each table held papers of a different color.
White meant confirmed residents, yellow meant pending reinspection, red meant urgent structural damage, and blue recorded needs for housing, meal deliveries, and medical care. Dozens of file boxes sat on the wooden shelves along the wall, each labeled with a street name and a range of house numbers.
Lutia stood in the doorway for a while.
“Are all these damages from North City?”
“What’s been registered so far,” Lorne said.
“What about the ones that haven’t been registered?”
“They’re not here.”
“So it looks like less than there really is.”
“Right.”
Lorne set the North Gate investigation records on an empty table, then took the yellow registration form for the last household in Chapter Four from his shoulder bag.
Unusual icing on the basement’s east wall.
Earliest time discovered: the evening before the snowfall.
The inner layer of ice formed before the snowfall and contained no resonance echo from Lutia Windgarden.
The outer layer was new ice added after the snowfall.
Cause unknown.
That was what they had reconfirmed before leaving the household.
But there was already another compensation form for the same address in the file box.
Lorne laid the two sheets side by side.
Lutia quickly spotted the difference.
The first was yesterday’s temporary registration; the second had already been stamped as accepted by the city administration and was ready to enter the damage-assessment process. The addresses, homeowner’s name, and damaged property were the same on both sheets, but the time of discovery was different.
The temporary registration said “the evening before the snowfall.”
The compensation form said “after the snowfall began, before the first evening time signal.”
The estimated cause had already been filled in as well:
Underground water main ruptured by unusual snowfall.
“This one’s wrong,” Lutia said.
“Yes.”
“Who changed it?”
Lorne turned the sheet over.
The acceptance field bore a small round stamp. Beside it was only a registration number, with no transcriber’s name.
“These aren’t the same document,” he said. “The official compensation form was filled out again during processing.”
“Why wasn’t the original time copied over?”
“Maybe the person processing it thought the resident remembered wrong. Or maybe they only looked at the summary on the first form.”
“What about the estimated cause?”
“Filled in according to the current event classification.”
Lutia pointed to the line.
“The underground water main hasn’t been inspected.”
“That’s why this field says ‘estimated.’”
“It doesn’t look estimated.”
“That’s the problem.”
Lorne picked up a pen, drew a diagonal line across the upper-right corner of the compensation form, and wrote “Returned for Reinspection.”
A clerk sorting documents nearby looked up.
“That one’s already been scheduled for the first round of assessments.”
“Withdraw it.”
“Reason?”
“The time of discovery doesn’t match the original registration, and the estimated cause isn’t supported by any engineering records.”
The clerk glanced at Lutia, then at the two forms.
“For now, all the underground icing is being classified as seasonal disaster damage. If we verify every form separately, compensation will take even longer.”
“If the cause is entered incorrectly, it has to be recalculated anyway.”
“Residents are waiting for money right now.”
Lorne finished writing the return notation.
“If the basement had already iced over before the snowfall, but we calculate it as snowfall damage, then discover later that the causes weren’t the same, this household will have to go through the process all over again.”
The clerk frowned.
“Then how long are they supposed to wait?”
“First, we confirm the time.”
“Isn’t the time already in the official record?”
Lorne looked up.
“Which one?”
The clerk went to the document rack by the wall and pulled out a long, narrow form.
“The unusual-event timeline sent by the bell tower. Every district’s disaster registrations are aligned to this.”
Several times were listed in order on the paper:
Fourth afternoon time signal: scattered snowfall appeared in North Market.
Fifth afternoon time signal: snow accumulation in North Bell District reached the point where it affected travel.
First evening time signal: water mains froze in multiple parts of the city.
Second evening time signal: structural damage to rooftops increased.
Lorne carried the paper to the window.
Lutia moved over beside him.
The handwriting on the form was neat, except that the ink for the first line was slightly darker. Beneath the words “fourth time signal” was a small patch of fuzzed paper, as if it had once been scraped with a thin blade.
“This was altered,” Lutia said.
The clerk came over.
“Where?”
Lorne lightly touched the paper with his fingertip without rubbing back and forth.
“These three words weren’t written there originally.”
“It was already like that when the bell tower sent it.”
“Where’s the original duty log?”
“It should still be in the bell tower.”
Lorne turned the event timeline over.
There was no transcriber’s name on the back, only the square seal of Longchime Bell Tower and the Engineering Bureau’s confirmation stamp.
“Who delivered this?”
The clerk thought for a moment.
“It came yesterday afternoon with the Engineering Bureau’s documents. I only distributed it.”
“Who delivered it?”
“I don’t know. They were wearing an Engineering Bureau coat, with their hat pulled low.”
Lutia looked at Lorne.
Everyone in the Engineering Bureau wore dark blue coats. That wasn’t enough to point to anyone.
Lorne put the timeline in his own file folder.
The clerk immediately said, “That’s a shared document for the registration room.”
“I’ll file a checkout slip.”
“You’re going to the bell tower now?”
“First I’m checking the other compensation forms.”
“How many are there?”
Lorne looked at the row of file boxes by the wall.
“All the ones with a time of discovery filled in.”
The clerk’s expression grew even worse.
Lutia asked, “About how many?”
“More than two hundred have already been submitted.”
“We’re supposed to check them one by one?”
Lorne opened the first file box.
“Weren’t you always curious why humans write so much paper?”
“Not anymore.”
Lorne placed a stack of forms in front of her.
“Too late.”
They started with North Street.
Lutia was not responsible for judging the compensation amounts. She only looked for the time and cause. Lorne, meanwhile, placed each official compensation form beside the original temporary registration to confirm whether the contents matched.
In the first hour, they found seven documents with inconsistent times.
Three households had the time their water mains ruptured recorded as late at night, while the official compensation forms had all been changed to the first evening time signal.
The original registrations for two shops mentioned that their goods had already suffered cold damage before the first snowflake fell. After processing, however, the forms said “frozen damage after snowfall.”
In another household, the basement door had already been frozen shut before the third afternoon time signal, but the compensation form pushed the time of discovery back to the fifth signal.
“Why were they all changed to later?” Lutia asked.
“Because the official timeline says the snow began with the fourth time signal.”
“If the damage happened before the fourth, it can’t be directly counted as part of my snowfall.”
“Right.”
Lorne separated the seven forms.
“It’s also possible the original records were inaccurate. Residents may not remember which time signal it was.”
“But all seven remember it as earlier than the official time.”
“Right.”
“None remember it as later?”
“Not so far.”
They moved on to the second file box.
There was more damage at East Ferry Wharf.
Warehouse doors, lifting cables, wooden pallets, wagon axles, cold-storage cellars, and boats moored along the riverbank had all been registered in different ways. At first, Lutia examined every field. Later, whenever she saw “corrected according to bell-tower time,” she pulled the document out first.
Before noon, twenty-three forms were already spread across the table.
When Greta entered, she was still holding a piece of unfinished dark bread.
“What are you doing?”
Lorne handed her the first incorrect compensation form.
After reading it, Greta flipped through several of the documents they had pulled.
“How many?”
“Twenty-three. Every official form adjusts the time of discovery to after the official first-snow time.”
“Logged by the same person?”
“Not just one person. Every location uses the same bell-tower timeline.”
Greta picked up the long, narrow form.
“Certain it was altered?”
“The paper was scraped, and the replacement ink is a different color.”
“What about the original duty log?”
“We haven’t gotten it yet.”
“What does the Engineering Bureau say?”
“We haven’t asked.”
Greta took a bite of bread.
“Don’t ask Xivier yet.”
Lutia looked at her.
“Why not?”
“If it’s only a transcription error, getting the original will clear it up.” Greta set the timeline back on the table. “If it isn’t, asking people first will only warn whoever’s responsible that we’re looking for something.”
She turned to Lorne.
“Take two Disaster Affairs Office clerks and go straight to the bell tower for the original duty logs. Use the city’s disaster-investigation authority. Don’t route it through the Engineering Bureau.”
Lorne nodded.
Greta looked at Lutia again.
“You stay here.”
“I need to go to the bell tower.”
“No, you don’t.”
“The copper air duct extends toward the bell tower.”
“That’s exactly why I can’t let you go near it unprepared.”
“I’m only looking at records.”
“The bell tower isn’t an archive. It has the master bell mechanism, underground heating pipes, and North City’s time-signal machinery. You’re not allowed inside right now.”
Lutia was about to argue, but Lorne spoke first.
“I’ll bring the duty logs back.”
“What if they won’t give them to you?”
“Greta will send someone else.”
Greta finished the last bite of bread.
“And they’ll be less polite about it.”
After Lorne left, Lutia continued sorting the compensation forms.
The contents really did repeat: ruptured pipes, damaged roofs, waterlogged goods, blocked flues, residents forced to move out.
But the quantities on each form were different.
One household had three children.
One shop had seventeen bolts of wool cloth in storage.
Someone had lost two days’ worth of goods. Someone else had lost a table they had used for fifteen years.
In the “Other” field of one form was written: Homeowner refuses to leave. Wife’s ashes are still upstairs.
Another said: There is only one pair of snow-ready boots in the house. The two of them take turns going outside.
Lutia flattened the two forms, then returned them to their respective piles.
It was halfway through the afternoon when Lorne finally returned.
His shoulders were covered in snow, and he carried a long wooden box wrapped with sealing strips in his right hand. Two Disaster Affairs Office clerks followed behind him.
Greta personally inspected the seals, then had the door closed.
Inside the wooden box were three duty logs.
One recorded the bell tower’s time signals.
One recorded the master bell’s machinery and the condition of the heating pipes.
The last was an incident log kept by the overnight staff.
Lorne opened the time-signal log first.
The paper was thicker than the compensation forms, its edges stained with black machine oil. Each day’s time signals had been entered one by one by the person on duty, who also recorded delayed hammer strikes, jammed gears, or unscheduled stoppages.
On the page for the day of the snowfall, the third, fourth, and fifth afternoon time signals had all been completed on time.
Beside the fourth signal was a note about an abnormality:
Lower northern wind wheel rotated ahead of schedule. Master bell unaffected.
“What does that mean?” Lutia asked.
“There are several wind wheels in the lower levels of the bell tower for driving ventilation,” Lorne said.
“When do they turn?”
“When the heating pipes get too hot or the lower levels become too stuffy.”
“The day before the snowfall was hot.”
“So this line alone can’t prove there was a problem.”
He turned to the machinery log.
There was another entry near the same time:
Lower northern wind wheel started on its own. Shutter response sluggish. Engineering Bureau notified.
The notification time was written as after the third afternoon signal.
That was one signal earlier than the first snow recorded on the official timeline.
Greta asked, “Who handled it?”
Lorne looked at the next column.
The space where a name should have been contained only a horizontal line.
It hadn’t simply been left blank.
There were scraping marks on the paper.
“Altered again,” Lutia said.
Lorne moved the lamp closer.
A small section of ink remained beneath the scratches, enough to make out only the right side of the final character.
Greta asked, “Can it be recovered?”
“It needs to go to the archives office.”
Lorne did not touch that part of the paper again. Instead, he opened the overnight incident log.
The handwriting in this one was the messiest.
The staff recorded only what they considered abnormal. Sometimes they didn’t even write a complete time, using only phrases like “before dinner” or “after the second tower inspection.”
Among the final lines from the day before the snowfall was a brief entry:
Continuous wind heard beneath the north side.
Heating-pipe temperature normal.
Engineering Bureau inspected. Said it was return airflow through the old duct; no need to stop the bell.
There were no alterations beside the entry.
Lutia read those lines again.
“There was wind the day before.”
“Yes,” Lorne said.
“The basement froze the day before too.”
“Yes.”
“Someone had recently maintained the air duct at the North Gate.”
“Yes.”
Lutia pointed to the scratches in the machinery log.
“The Engineering Bureau had already sent someone to inspect beneath the north side before I cast my spell, but the handler’s name was erased.”
Greta stood beside the table.
“All we can confirm is that the records were tampered with. We can’t conclude who changed them or why.”
“Xivier knows about the old air duct,” Lutia said.
“At the hearing, he said the old water-heating system and air duct might affect the snowfall.”
“He may also have been on the road when I entered the city.”
“You can’t be certain that person was him.”
Lutia said nothing more.
Greta had the two clerks take the duty logs to the storage room and ordered all compensation forms connected to the bell tower’s underground abnormal timing suspended from approval.
The registration room immediately descended into chaos.
Some people went after documents that had already been sent out. Others complained that the first round of compensation would be delayed. Still others asked whether the suspension covered the three streets around the bell tower or all of North City.
Lorne spread the city map out again.
He marked each of the twenty-three compensation forms with abnormal times according to its address.
The households whose basements had frozen early became black dots.
The copper duct at the North Gate was a second dot.
Dye works, warehouses, residences, and water-main damage were marked with different symbols.
Lutia handed him paper and searched for house numbers. Once everything was marked, the points were not scattered throughout North City.
Centered on Longchime Bell Tower, they formed an outward arc.
The arc passed through the eastern side of North Street, Clockmaker’s Alley, two dye works, and a row of warehouses along the river, finally approaching the boundary stone outside the North Gate.
“What is this line?” Lutia asked.
Lorne studied the map.
“There’s no such line on the modern streets.”
“Water mains?”
“Water mains don’t run like this.”
“The city wall?”
“North City’s current wall is farther out.”
Greta came over.
“An old drainage channel?”
“It’s not on the map.”
Lorne used a folding ruler to measure the distance from several points to the bell tower.
The distances were not exactly the same, but the difference was small. The seven locations where cold damage had appeared earliest almost all fell along the same arc.
“The damage didn’t appear along the streets,” he said.
“Something underground connects them,” Lutia said.
“You still won’t commit to that.”
“The forms from the west side of North City haven’t been sorted yet.”
Greta pointed to the left side of the map.
“Before tonight, find the households on the west side at the same distance. Don’t wait for reports. Send people door to door and ask whether they had any early icing.”
Lorne looked out the window.
The sky was already beginning to darken.
“Tonight?”
“If this arc exists, I want to know where it runs before the next temperature drop.”
Lutia asked, “When will that be?”
“The last two nights both turned cold after dark,” Greta said. “No one knows whether it’ll happen again tonight.”
They did not have to wait long.
After Longchime Bell Tower struck the first evening time signal, frost on the registration room’s windows suddenly spread toward the center.
At first, only white marks appeared in the four corners of the glass.
After a few breaths, the entire window was covered in delicate ice flowers.
One by one, the people in the room stopped working.
The stove against the wall was still burning, and the flue was not blocked, yet the room temperature dropped rapidly. Lutia’s breath condensed into white mist before her face.
“It’s starting,” she said.
Greta immediately ordered the documents sealed and told the street patrols to check on residents and their fires.
Lorne grabbed the city map and his coat. Lutia was already at the door.
“Where are you going?” Greta asked.
“To look at that line.”
“It’s getting colder outside.”
“We can only see it now.”
Greta turned to Lorne.
Lorne shoved the map into a waterproof tube.
“I’ll go with her. We’ll observe from the surface only. No going underground, and no spellcasting.”
“Take two more people.”
The four of them set out from the old council hall.
The snow outside was finer than it had been during the day, but the wind was cold enough to cut their faces. The half-melted tracks of water in the streets had already frozen again. Along the way, the Disaster Affairs Office clerks reminded residents to go indoors and closed the outside shutters of several shops.
Lutia walked at the front.
She did not actively extend her senses.
The cold was pushing outward through the cracks between the stones beneath their feet. The water in the roadside drains stopped flowing first, then formed a thin layer of ice.
They followed the black dots on the map eastward.
When they passed the first residence that had frozen early, the window openings in its east wall were already covered in white frost. Farther on, the colored ice mixed outside the dye works began to crackle softly.
Lorne recorded each freezing location and the order in which it occurred on the map as they went.
Lutia suddenly stopped.
Ahead was a narrow street.
On the left was the Old North Bell Quarter, with low, tightly packed houses and roofs buried under snow. On the right was a later-widened section of road, lined with newer storefronts and two oil lamps hanging outside, not yet frosted over.
The two sides were separated by only a seam between stone slabs.
Snow fell on the left.
There was none on the right.
The snowfall did not gradually weaken.
Whenever a snowflake reached the air above the seam, airflow pushed it back to the left. The occasional flakes that crossed over melted into beads of water the instant they landed on the stone to the right.
Lutia stepped closer.
Lorne caught the back of her cloak.
“Don’t cross it.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
She crouched to examine the seam.
There were no inscriptions, metal, or visible boundary markers in the crack. The color and wear of the stone on either side were also nearly identical. There was no sign of an intentional division.
One of the Disaster Affairs Office clerks held out both hands.
His left hand stopped inside the boundary, and snow quickly gathered on the glove.
He moved his right hand less than half a foot outward and touched only damp, cold air.
“How is this possible?” he asked.
Lutia looked north along the boundary.
The divide between snow and no snow crossed the street, the base of a wall, and a small courtyard without following any modern road. A tree stood directly on the boundary. Its branches on the left were coated in white snow, while wet black dead leaves still clung to those on the right.
Lorne unfolded the map.
This location fell on the arc formed by the black dots.
“There’s nothing here on the city map,” he said.
Lutia held her left hand above the divide.
Her resonance changed direction when it reached this point.
The cold inside the boundary sank underground. Outside it, there was no pull, and the few snowflakes that fell there could not maintain the low temperature.
“This isn’t my boundary,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“When I summoned the snow, I didn’t specify this line.”
“Then where did it come from?”
Lutia followed the arc toward Longchime Bell Tower through the snowstorm.
Only a blurred yellow light remained in the clock face high above, while the lower half of the tower was hidden in snow.
“It’s older than this street,” she said.
Lorne lowered his head to study the map.
The arc crossed the later-widened road, cut through the new and old buildings, and even passed beyond the location of the modern city wall.
Snow continued to fall along the seam.
It piled higher and higher on the left side, while the right side had only a wet, glistening road.
The boundary the snowstorm obeyed was one that no longer existed on any modern map.