I pull the kettle off its hook before it starts to sing and set two mugs on the worktable, then take the chair across from you with my own handful of slips to sort.

"Sort by district, set aside anything you can't place. Don't guess. A wrong pile is worse than an honest question pile."

I glance at your first three while you lay them out.

The first slip is ordinary enough: a property transfer, two tanneries on Copper Market Row, dated eleven years back, accession number in the corner. "Copper Market. That one's easy."

The second is a burial record, St. Anselm's parish, a name and a date, no street at all. "Parish burial. It goes by church, not district, unless you'd rather start a separate pile for those. I never decided, which is why the tray's a mess."

The third is where it gets interesting. A rent receipt, dated nineteen years back, for a dwelling on Marsh Lane, third stair from the quay arch. The clerk's hand is cramped but legible, and the ink has gone brown with age.

"Marsh Lane," I say, and I don't keep the mild surprise out of my voice. "That's the same street as on the parcel's card. Nineteen years old, though — older than any slip I've sorted this season."

I lean over and look at it properly, careful not to touch it while your fingers are near. _Same street. Probably coincidence. Probably._

"Here's the thing. I've lived in Veyr my whole working life, and I can walk you to North Street in five minutes. Marsh Lane I know only as a word from older records. It doesn't appear on the current ward maps — I've checked, more than once, for reasons I can't entirely explain even to myself."

I set my own slips down and reach for the tea.

"Where did you put it? Which pile?"