Mira pulls a fresh sheet toward her and dips her pen, unhurried. The parcel stays where it is, seal intact under the lamplight.

"A sensible first step. A question costs nothing; an assumption costs plenty." _Especially when I don't yet know which street he saw on which leg of his trip. Better to ask plainly than plant an answer in his head._

She writes in a small, even hand, speaking the words as they go down:

"To Rowan Fen, courier. From Mira Vell, Black Archive. Regarding the parcel you delivered here, marked A17 — a question, nothing urgent. On your route, did you notice any street signs or names along the way, particularly anything touching North Street or Marsh Lane? If so, where, and on which part of the journey — going out or coming back? Any detail helps, however small. No need to come specially; reply when your route allows."

She blots the ink and turns the sheet so the traveler can read it. "That's the whole of it. I've kept it open — I'm not telling him which street we expect where, in case his memory disagrees with the card. A leading question gets you a polite echo, not an answer."

She sets the pen down. "It stays unsent until you're satisfied. If you want anything changed — shorter, warmer, a specific place to leave a reply — say so. Otherwise, tell me how you'd like it delivered: by archive runner, held here for his next call, or left at the Ash Steps office for him to collect."

A glance at the window, where the rain keeps up its patient tapping. "He's usually back through within a few days, but I won't promise what I can't see."