I slide the address card back under its weight and fetch a pen, inkwell and a half-sheet of good rag paper from the drawer. The parcel stays where it lies, seal facing up, untouched.

"Wise to read it first. A note to a courier should be short; he reads these on doorsteps, in the rain, sometimes by lantern." I dip the pen and write in a steady hand, speaking the lines as they go down.

"To Rowan Fen, courier. From Mira Vell, Black Archive. Regarding parcel A17, held here unopened. Two questions, answer at your convenience: first, on your delivery route, what street signs or markers did you pass, and in what order? Second, did anyone at the point of origin or along the way mention the parcel's address, or correct it? No urgency. A reply by note to the archive reading room will do."

I set the pen down and turn the sheet toward you, ink still wet enough to catch the lamplight. _Precise enough to be useful, vague enough not to spread rumor before we know anything._

"Nothing in it claims the card is wrong. It only asks what he saw. If he noticed nothing, we've lost a half-sheet of paper. If he noticed something, we'll know whether North Street or Marsh Lane came first on his route, which matters more than it sounds."

I hold the sheet a moment longer, then offer it across the counter. "Read it through. Cross out anything you dislike or add a question of your own. It goes nowhere until you say so, and I've no courier of my own at the moment, so sending it may mean waiting for Rowan to pass this way again, or walking it to the Ash Steps office where couriers lodge their messages. That choice can wait too."

The rain keeps its rhythm on the glass. A17 sits between us, patient as everything else in this room.