"You may use the side room," she said. "If anyone dies, do it quietly. I have ferry cloth to argue about."
Then she disappeared into the market with the stride of a woman who believed privacy was a temporary administrative condition rather than a moral right.
Renne lifted the portfolio and gestured toward the narrow room off the awning where Dema stored sealed contracts and seasonal registries. Iva followed because standing in public with guild colors in front of the whole market felt worse.
The side room smelled of paper, damp wood, and old ink. Morning light came through the slatted window in narrow bars. Renne set the portfolio on the desk and sat only after Iva had chosen the chair opposite.
"I know this is abrupt," Renne said as she unlooped the strap. "I came in on the evening ferry when the northern packet finally made Lowwater without grounding itself. I would have preferred to write first, but Dema indicated your schedule against the festival was narrow."
She opened the portfolio with care.
Even that stung. The papers inside had been arranged by priority, ribboned sections nested beneath correspondence, material summaries clipped to the front. She had once done exactly that before site visits.
Renne drew out three sheets and laid them flat.
"I've been reviewing the Brineshell commission records," she said. "And the Marsh Conservators' Guild has become very interested in the quality of restoration being completed here."
The wording was careful. Not your work. The quality being completed here. Renne might not even hear the distinction because people born inside institutions often mistook structure for natural weather.
Iva folded her hands once to stop herself from reaching for the pages too soon. "That sounds ominous."
To Renne's credit, she smiled a little instead of pretending the remark had not landed.
"I hope not. Complimentary, in fact." She tapped the top sheet. "There's a fresco cycle in Norstave Cathedral. Northern city, old salt-trade wealth, extensive upper-vault damage after a winter roof failure two years ago. The work has been stabilized twice and restored badly once. They need someone who understands damaged surfaces, layered interventions, and the difference between preserving a hand and repainting it flatter than piety."
That got through anyway.
Iva's eyes dropped to the summary despite herself. The description was exact. Vault fresco cycle. Water infiltration followed by freeze cracking. Smoke bloom from emergency braziers. Earlier repair passes done by an underqualified regional team whose plaster fills had sealed salts inside the lime and were now pushing pigment loss outward.
Photograph notes described a particular section of vault rib where the original painter had used an unusual tempera grind — egg yolk cut with local pine resin — and the bad repair team had covered it with standard lime wash, trapping the resinous layer beneath a material that would eventually flake the original free like dead skin.
Exactly her work.
Not the cheap salvage jobs that had made up the last three years. Real restoration. Large scale, technically difficult, thekind of commission people trained their whole apprenticeships hoping to be ready for.
Renne watched her read and, annoyingly, did not gloat.
"The current lead withdrew for health reasons," she said. "We've reviewed possible replacements. Your name rose quickly."
Rose quickly. As if it had not spent three years in small print.
Iva kept her face still. "On what basis."
"On the basis that your work remains very good."
No apology in that sentence. No shame. Only fact, almost brisk in its confidence. Renne believed she was offering something solid enough to stand on.
She slid the second page forward.
"Eighteen-month contract, with option to extend if the lower chapels prove recoverable. Full materials support. Housing stipend. Two trained assistants assigned under your direction. Travel covered both ways. Fee structure here." Her finger rested on the column long enough for the number to register. "And title designation as lead conservator for the commission."
A title written large enough to flatter and still small enough to sit beneath the guild's name.
The figure was substantial enough to turn a body traitor. More money than the last four jobs combined. Enough to work without counting ferry fares between every meal.
Lead conservator.
Not subcontracting specialist in an appendix. Not outside labor under guild oversight. A real title. The title she should already have had if talent and consequence lived in the same moral universe.