"In some sections. Not all. Depends what the wall carries."
"The binder warms on contact?"
"A little."
"Useful."
"Sometimes."
There should not have been anything in that word. Sometimes. Yet the way he said it made the workshop air feel narrower.
Iva set the pencil down with deliberate care. "I prefer to test materials myself before I commit them to a wall."
"Good."
"If you have stock, I will need to assess the current blend before I use it."
"You shall."
Again with that certainty, as though he had already accepted the entire collaboration on her behalf. She should have objected. Should have pushed back simply to restore proper professional balance. Instead she found herself noticing the sample boards behind him, each strip brushed with a different mineral mix in patient gradients, and the stain of old amber oil sunk permanent into the grain of the worktable. Twenty years of hand knowledge lived in this room. Perhaps more.
He followed her glance. "Do not use the second shelf on the east wall. Those jars are unstable."
"Why keep unstable jars on an open shelf?"
"To remind the apprentices not to mix chalk with wet shell ash."
"Educational through hazard. Bold."
This time the amusement was unmistakable, brief and low in his chest. "You may put your own dangerous things higher up."
The absurdity of it almost pulled a laugh from her, and she disliked that too. She did not arrive in places and settle in. She worked, invoiced, departed. People who made room for her in their workshops misunderstood the length of her stay.
From outside, Dema's voice cut across the walkway calling for labor counts at the south market. Mavrek glanced toward the opening.
"I must go to the outer wall before the tide turns," he said. "Do not set the northern section until I return. I will show you where the older oil sits in the stone."
Not a request. Not quite an order either. More dangerous than either, because it implied a future in which they were already working side by side closely enough for demonstration.
"I am capable of waiting half a day before ruining your wall," Iva said.
"Our wall," he corrected.
The words landed harder than they should have. Our. Ridiculous. He meant jurisdiction, responsibility, shared labor. She had known the man six minutes.
"We are not married to it," she said before she could stop herself.
One dark brow lifted. "Nay. Not yet."
Heat climbed so abruptly up her throat she could have blamed the reef climate if she had been a weaker liar to herself.
He left before she found an answer sharp enough to recover the ground. Just turned, ducked the lintel by habit rather than caution, and stepped back into the white glare of Brineshell with the unhurried stride of a man who did not doubt he would be obeyed.
Iva stared at the doorway for one useless beat, then sat down hard on the bench and looked again at the notes.
Maruk in the older layer. Lower first lift. Oil test before heat cloth.
Correct. Damn him.