The Wren house was on the eastern side of Lower Fifth, in a residential block that had been standing long enough that the stone had gone a uniform grey and the window frames had been replaced so many times that no two were quite the same size. The block was not the worst housing in Lower Fifth and not the best — it was the kind of housing where people stayed because the cost was manageable and leaving required options they did not have.

Alden had asked her to come. He had not explained why in the message, only that he wanted someone who knew how to read records to be present when he looked at something in the house. She had come because the request was unusual — Alden did not ask for things he did not need, and if he needed her specifically, there was a reason.

Mara Wren opened the door before they reached it, which meant she had been watching the street.

She was a woman in her mid-fifties with the physical markers of someone who had worked with her hands for most of her life and had not stopped. Her hands were large and steady, the kind of hands that knew exactly how much force to apply to things. She looked at Seren with an expression that was not unwelcoming but was careful — the expression of someone assessing a situation before deciding how to respond to it.

“You're the Records person,” Mara said.

“Ash Copyist,” Seren said. “The lowest tier. I process mortality records.”

Mara looked at her a moment longer. Then: “Come in.”

The interior of the house was clean in the way of people who maintained what they had because replacing it was not an option. Everything had been repaired rather than replaced — the table with a replaced leg that was a slightly different wood than the original, the window with glass that was a slightly different shade than the pane beside it, the walls with patches that were a slightly different color than the surrounding plaster. The repairs were good. Whoever had done them had cared about doing them correctly.

Tobin Wren was in the corner, working on something mechanical with small tools. He looked up when they came in and assessed Seren in the way that men who had spent their lives reading danger assessed strangers — not aggressively, just thoroughly. She looked back at him until he nodded slightly and returned to his work.

Mara made tea without asking. The tea was the same grade as the Ash Annex tea, maybe slightly better, served in cups that had been washed carefully. Seren wrapped her hands around the cup and acknowledged the warmth.

“Alden says you're helping him find someone,” Mara said, sitting across from Seren at the table. Alden had moved to the far side of the room and was examining the floor near the eastern wall with the particular quality of attention he used when he was looking at something he already knew was there.

“A man named Corvin Ash went missing,” Seren said. “Alden is trying to find him. I'm helping with the records aspect.”

“The records aspect,” Mara repeated. She looked at her tea. “Alden's good at finding people. Always has been. Even when he was small. He'd find the other children in the neighborhood before any of the adults had noticed they were missing.” She paused. “I used to think it was because he paid attention. Later I thought it was because he understood what it felt like to need to be found.”

Seren did not respond to this directly. She drank her tea.

“The Ash Winter records,” she said, keeping her voice at the register of professional conversation. “I've been working on a batch from that period. The documentation from that time is often incomplete — the dịch bệnh created significant gaps in intake records. I've been doing cross-reference work to try to close some of those gaps.” She looked at Mara. “Did you receive any emergency placements during that period? Children through the triage station network?”

Mara's hands on her cup did not move. The quality of her stillness changed in a way that was small and specific and that Seren would not have noticed if she had not been trained to notice the difference between a person who was comfortable and a person who was choosing not to show that they were not.

“Why would you ask that?” Mara said.

“The records from the triage station transfers are incomplete. I'm trying to match transfer records with receiving households.” She set her cup down. “If you received a placement during that period, it might help me close a gap in the documentation.”

Mara looked at her for a long moment.

“The records from that time were very confused,” she said. “A lot of things weren't documented properly. It was a bad season.”

“Yes,” Seren agreed. “It was.”

Across the room, Alden had stopped moving. He was standing still near the eastern wall, looking at the floor. A section of the floorboards near the wall was a slightly different color than the surrounding boards — not the color of age or wear, but the color of wood that had been installed more recently than the wood around it. The repair was good. Whoever had done it had matched the width and the grain carefully. But the color was not quite right.

Tobin Wren set down his tools.

The silence in the room changed quality.

Mara looked at Alden. Alden looked at the floor. Tobin looked at Alden.

Nobody said anything.

Then Mara stood up and began collecting the cups. “It was good of you to come,” she said, in the tone of someone closing a conversation. “Alden knows where everything is. He always has.”

When they left — Tobin walking them to the door and standing in it until they had reached the end of the block — Seren walked beside Alden in silence for half a street before speaking.

“The floor,” she said.

“I know it's there,” he said. “I've always known it was there. I've never looked at what's in it.”

“Why?”

He was quiet for a moment, looking at the street ahead. “Because some answers change things that can't be unchanged. And the things in that house have always been enough without the answers.”

She thought about Mara's hands on the cup, not moving. About Tobin setting down his tools and standing up. About the specific way Mara had said *Alden knows where everything is. He always has* — as though the knowing were the important thing, not the objects of the knowledge.

“She knew I was asking about more than records,” Seren said.

“Yes.”

“She answered anyway.”

“She always does,” he said. “That's the thing about her. She answers what she can and she goes quiet about what she can't and she never lies. I've never caught her in a lie.” He paused. “It makes the things she goes quiet about more significant.”

Seren wrote in her ledger that evening: *Wren house, eastern wall, replaced floorboards — color inconsistency suggests installation after original build. Mara aware of my question's subtext. Did not answer and did not lie. Tobin stood at the door. Both of them are protecting something and they know how to do it.*