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“Fiona.”

I tear a narrow strip from the cloth wrapped around the iron and bind my knuckle.

“Satisfied?”

“No.”

“Good. Hold the hinge.”

He gives me a look that would frighten anyone who had not known him since childhood. Then he braces the metal again.

We finish shaping the sleeve and drive the lever into the socket. It sits crooked but firm.

Bran wraps both hands around the new handle. “If this snaps, I am blaming you.”

“If it holds, I am taking credit.”

“Naturally.”

We lower it together.

The rod descends. The brace creaks. Leather scrapes against metal, but the repair stays in place.

We raise the handle.

Nothing comes from the spout.

The waiting line shifts.

“Again,” I say.

We work the handle twice. The wooden lever is heavier than the iron one, and its shape forces us to pull from an awkward angle. My shoulders ache. Bran’s breath becomes rough with effort.

On the third attempt, air coughs from the spout.

On the fourth, muddy water sputters into the waiting bucket.

A murmur travels through the yard.

We continue pumping. The stream strengthens and clears. Water strikes the bucket in a steady rhythm.

The girl with the drooping cap hurries forward. Her mother catches the back of her coat.

“Wait your turn.”

The man at the front of the line looks at the child’s small bucket.

“Neris needs her medicine,” he says. “Let her through.”

The next woman steps aside too.

The girl places her bucket beneath the spout. I steady it while Bran moves the handle. Water splashes against the wooden sides.

When the bucket is full, she reaches for it.

“Both hands,” I warn. “Walk slowly.”

She obeys with fierce concentration.