Morning arrived with rehearsals.
From the river quarter came a practice roll like rain learning to be orderly; from Blue Lane a fiddle tested two notes and apologized to the window; from the theater an actor projected a speech to the pigeons and was corrected by one. The bell tried its three-note chord; the third tone held steady, the city's mediator, as if warning: play, but count each other.
On the terrace, yesterday's boards carried a new blank bracketed space: FESTIVAL PROTOCOL – SAINT'S VIGIL (DRAFT). Under it, a smaller line waited like a question: NOISE AS INVITATION.
Halvern appeared with cards bound in twine and a fresh, permanent flower of ink on his cuff. "Docket," he said, grimly delighted. "Drummers at the South Gate want to collect a silence pass fee from neighbors between rehearsals. Theatre proposes a sound curtain—one copper to lift it so passersby can hear the dress rehearsal. And a guild calling itself the 'Order of Hours'—" he grimaced, "—is selling quiet subscriptions street by street."
Rowan brightened. "At last," he said. "A crime I can dance at."
"Elane wants the protocol posted before noon," Mikel added, already arranging paragraphs in his mind. "Quiet lanes, loud lanes, performance jars, curfew by consent, sanctuaries—clinic, school, dorms."
Serren leaned his staff to the jamb—punctuation made of wood. "And Verrin," he said. "Men in gray enjoy festivals. They think paper works better when there's music to hide it."
Celina tied her ribbon snug; the gold under green pulsed once like a metronome with manners. Ernest set both palms on the sill and let the stone warm—table, not pulpit.
"South Gate first," he said. "Then the theater. Then whoever decided afternoons can be leased to silence."
The South Gate neighborhood had learned to like itself since air stopped being collateral, which made it cautious when a new placard appeared on the drummer's cart:
SILENCE PASS — TWO COPPERS(NEIGHBOR RATE DURING PRACTICE HOURS)
A line of neighbors—aprons, brick dust, infants—hovered, insulted but curious. The drummers stood with sticks tucked, faces open and guilty; the boy on the big drum had a bruise of sleep around each eye and a grin of hope that wouldn't shut.
Magistra Elane stepped under the cart's shade and read aloud so the sign had to listen to itself. "By Market Protocol," she said, "commons held by witness. Quiet is not a commodity. Price belongs on performance, not absence of it."
The troupe leader—sincere, harried—lifted both hands. "We don't charge the poor," he rushed. "We charge Verrin's men, merchants who complain by the hour and then buy our best seats. We need rent for skins, sticks, stew."
"Then post a jar," Countess Gold said, appearing like a generous invoice. "Not a tray. Rehearsal Fund — no obligation. Write under it: We will stay within rehearsal hours; we will move when asked."
The boy at the big drum nodded vigorously. "We can rehearse in the Lime Yard," he offered. "The lime doesn't mind noise; it complains about everything else."
Celina put her fingers to the drumskin; it warmed and answered with a soft heartbeat of its own. "Name," she said.
The drum wrote a shy line along its rim: call, count, carry.
"Not charge," Ernest added.
The troupe leader grimaced and took down the SILENCE PASS placard. He replaced it with a hastily painted sign: REHEARSAL FUND — NO OBLIGATION. Coins sounded kinder in the jar than they ever had in the bowl.
"Protocol," Elane told Halvern, and he wrote:
FESTIVAL PROTOCOL — NOISE AS INVITATION (I)REHEARSAL = INVITATION. NO FEE FOR QUIET.PRICE ON PERFORMANCE; JAR ALLOWED (NO OBLIGATION).HOURS POSTED; MOVE ON REQUEST.QUIET SANCTUARIES: CLINIC, SCHOOL, DORM — RESPECT LINES.WITNESSES: STICK, SKIN, LANE, RIBS.
Mikel lifted his chronometer to the sun. "Post rehearsal hours with the bell," he advised. "Let time be witness—she likes the work."
The troupe cheered; they were artists but loved schedules that kept food in bowls. The boy on the big drum tested one soft roll; the gate smiled.
"Next," Elane said. "Theater."
The theater had stretched a canvas across its side lane with the seriousness of a siege. A ticket booth with an apologetic frown wore a sign:
SOUND CURTAIN — ONE COPPER TO LIFT(DEDUCTED WITH TICKET)
Behind the canvas, a chorus breathed in patient unison; a trumpet attempted confidence and got most of the way. Children clustered in the lane, coins sweating in their fists.
"Advertising is not fee," Elane said for the second day running, nailing the clause to the booth until nails learned obedience. "Poster, scent, taster, sample song = invitation. Not tax."
The impresario appeared with sleeves that still applauded themselves, hair damp with rehearsal. "If we lift for free, the cheap seats will never fill," he lamented.
"Put a jar," Rowan said, now enjoying how often that solved sins. "Dress Rehearsal Fund — no obligation. Ask your donors to fund two free benches for apprentices."
"And write your hours," Mikel added. "So the clinic across the lane can nap its patients when you inhale."
Celina stepped to the canvas, palm flat. The sound on the other side leaned into her hand like a docile animal that had been taught not to bite. "Name," she told the curtain.
It warmed and wrote along its hem: hold, hush, reveal.
"Not withhold," she said. The canvas shivered and consented.
"Protocol," Halvern chanted, happy. He wrote:
FESTIVAL PROTOCOL — NOISE AS INVITATION (II)SOUND CURTAINS: NO FEE TO LIFT FOR PASSERSBY.JAR ALLOWED (NO OBLIGATION).POST HOURS; COORDINATE WITH QUIET SITES.FREE BENCHES FUNDED PUBLICLY.WITNESSES: CANVAS, NOTE, BENCH, RIBS.
The impresario sighed, set a jar, and labeled two benches APPRENTICE in block letters that would make him nicer by breakfast.
They found the Order of Hours on Lantern Street, selling peace like soap.
A man in gray—tailored, mannered—stood at a makeshift lectern. Behind him, two assistants held a board neatly chalked:
QUIET SUBSCRIPTIONTIER 1 (ALLEY): 3 COPPERS/DAYTIER 2 (LANE): 7 COPPERS/DAYTIER 3 (SQUARE EDGE): 12 COPPERS/DAY(PARTICIPATING STALLS & GUILDS HONOR)
At the foot of the board, a small line in smirking script: (exemptions by arrangement)
Verrin waited in the shade, not touching the display. His gray matched theirs too closely to be innocence.
Elane read the tiers aloud because law must hear itself before it lives. "By Concord," she said, and did not raise her voice, "queue and lane are commons. Quiet is by consent, not by fee."
The man in gray smiled in apology to the future. "We only sell order," he said. "Merchants want guaranteed hours when apprentices are not distracted, when hawkers don't outshout their wares, when—"
"—when your clients prefer obedience that looks like courtesy," Countess Gold finished pleasantly. "No."
Mikel pointed to the line exemptions by arrangement and raised an eyebrow. The chalk obligingly confessed a ghost word: bribe.
"Erase it," Celina said, ribbon warm. "Say ask your neighbor instead. Say carry a card. Say we will leave when told to by witness."
Verrin stepped forward with the careful gait of a man who never scuffs his own boots. "Subscription, not fee," he suggested, the word not trying to launder appetite.
"Refusal," Lady Aldery said, winter unblinking. "And a fine if you try again."
"Elane," Halvern prompted, through a grin that did not apologize for its teeth.
She wrote:
FESTIVAL PROTOCOL — QUIET BY CONSENTQUIET HOURS = BY MUTUAL NOTICE (CARD IN WINDOW).NO STREET OR LANE QUIET BY FEE OR SUBSCRIPTION.STEWARDS MAY ASK, NOT CHARGE.SANCTUARIES (CLINIC, SCHOOL, DORM): ALWAYS QUIET ZONES (MARKED).WITNESSES: CARD, WINDOW, LANE, RIBS.
The man in gray considered defiance, calculated the cost in minutes, and packed his chalk. Verrin inclined his head just enough to confess annoyance. "We'll return with sponsorship," he murmured to no one and everyone.
"Return with permission," Elane repeated, and the lecture dissolved into practice.
Two streets over, stewards—grandmothers again—took white sashes and cards that read QUIET ASKED on one side and NOISE WELCOME on the other. They turned them like seasons, and the city learned a new tense: we agreed.
The oldest complaint about festivals is neighbors. The newest courtesy is direction.
At mid-afternoon, a troupe of pipes and drums offered to "cross the bridge" with their tune and discovered the clinic windows open to sleep. The street balked, not wanting to choose between joy and mercy.
"Help them," Elane said to Ernest, not as a command, as an experiment she trusted him to attempt.
Ernest did not speak to lungs. He spoke to the lane and the air above it the way one addresses a decent hinge that deserves a please. "Carry that way," he said softly, and pointed.
The space took the tune and spilled it forward—east, curving between houses like a ribbon. Behind the line of performers, sound thinned to courtesy. In front, joy travelled without tax.
The piper turned, astonished like a child told his legs just learned to climb. The drummer boy laughed once and nearly missed the beat in delight; the lane caught it for him. The clinic slept.
"Write it," Halvern breathed, thrilled like a man catching a new piece of grammar in the wild.
FESTIVAL PROTOCOL — DIRECTIONPERFORMERS MAY ASK SPACE TO CARRY SOUND ONE WAY.QUIET SITES MAY ASK WALLS TO HOLD IT.LISTENERS PLACE HANDS TO HELP (PINS UP).WITNESSES: WALL, AIR, STONE, RIBS.
Pins went up; palms found corners; sound flowed like a river that had agreed to stay within its banks except when asked to show off.
The old priest stood at the corner, winter in his lashes, and watched a hymn happen by accident. "Permission," he said softly, practicing a new religion.
By late afternoon, the Office's little room became a dock where noise tied up and paid its dues. Clerks copied the Festival Protocol in tidy hands. Quiet Asked/Noise Welcome cards were stamped by the badge maker with ears uglier than sin and perfect for the job. Countess Gold posted FINES PAID: Shade Guild (again), Theater (sound curtain removed), Order of Hours (subscription attempt refused), a drum troupe (silence pass—converted to jar).
Lady Aldery added QUIET SANCTUARIES MARKED in winter blue, with locations and hours posted beside. Serren thumped his staff; wood liked keeping track.
At the chapel, the old priest finally sang the hymn he'd been honing all week—not up the nave, but into its stone. He named nouns—the city's new saints: door, bowl, bench, rope, bell, card, wall—then added drum and pipe and curtain and jar. The building approved; the square listened without being ordered. Breath arrived on time and left without paying more than it owed.
Rowan leaned against a pillar and let his eyes close for three useful minutes. "I am learning," he murmured, "to get drunk on order."
"Careful," Mikel said. "The hangover is called budget."
The terrace at dusk glowed with paper and faces. Festival Protocol took the center of the board like a banner you can read. The Queue Steward Oath hung beside Riverkeeper Oath and Firewatch—a bouquet of small vows that made a city hold.
The drummers came with jars that had coins and names in them. The theater brought a bench with APPRENTICE stenciled, paint still tacky. A perfumer sent two brooms as a joke and a pledge. A grandmother turned her QUIET ASKED card to NOISE WELCOME and everyone cheered.
Verrin did not appear. His absence read like a line in minutes; Halvern wrote it anyway: ORDER OF HOURS—RETIRED FOR THE DAY.
Elane lifted the last card—a thing that wasn't law so much as a promise to behave—and read:
FESTIVAL PROTOCOL IN FORCENOISE IS INVITATION.QUIET BY CONSENT.PRICE ON PERFORMANCE.DIRECTION BY REQUEST.SANCTUARIES MARKED.PEOPLE PRACTICE.
The city applauded itself again. It deserved to twice.
They ate in the dormitory window because celebration tastes better when no altar tries to tax it. Rowan had dust from a drum rim on his sleeve and did not bother to brush it off; he looked at it like a receipt. Mikel set his chronometer between a QUIET ASKED/NOISE WELCOME card and a Festival Protocol slip and enjoyed the company time kept now. Celina untied her ribbon; the warmth stayed. Outside, the square rehearsed doing joy without lying about price.
Ernest laid the day on the sill: a broken splinter of the SILENCE PASS placard, a thread from the sound curtain, a chalk stub from the Order of Hours board, two coins that had made the kinder sound in jars. He opened his notebook and gave the city its arithmetic:
South Gate—Silence Pass revoked; Rehearsal Fund (no obligation) adopted; hours posted with bell.
Theater—Sound Curtain fee removed; Poster/Dress Rehearsal jars allowed; benches labeled Apprentice funded.
Order of Hours—quiet subscription refused; Quiet by Consent cards issued; sanctuaries marked (clinic, school, dorm).
Direction—space taught to carry sound one way; walls learned to hold; pins assist; write more examples tomorrow.
Protocol—Noise Is Invitation posted; Market Protocol extended to festival; fines paid; laurel-ears quiet.
Old priest—hymn that listens added drum, pipe, curtain, jar; stone approved.
Next: audit saint's route for liens; verify stewards; anticipate Verrin's "sponsorship"; draft Noise After Dark clause by consent; prepare field kitchens (no "gratitude" tax).
He shut the book and set both palms on the sill. The stone warmed, happy to be table, not pulpit.
Down in the yard, first-years tried the three-note chord and laughed when they missed and tried again. The bell answered like a teacher who knows when to let the class giggle.
Rowan, eyes closed, offered the ritual that had learned to be both lullaby and ledger.
"The forest bent," he said.
"The nobles bowed," Mikel replied, punctuation softened by affection.
"The beast knelt," Celina said, memory kept clean.
"The chain obeyed," Rowan finished. "The mirrors cracked. The heirs knelt. The priests hungered. Light bent. Silence held. Stone listened."
Ernest added, looking over a square where sound moved by consent and jars didn't lie and a hymn had taught walls to help, "And the drum learned not to charge for quiet."
Night agreed.The city put its cards in windows and slept with music waiting just on the far side of consent.Tomorrow would arrive with saints, banners, and a man in gray who believes sponsorship is a prettier word for fee. The world had a clause ready.