Refuge smelled like soap, paper, and tired people. I stepped behind the counter at third bell and took a slate. Headcount was rows and boxes, easy to track if you kept your eyes honest.
"Three at once," Lyra said. "Don't stack them. Keep the door clear."
"Copy," I said.
We moved in time. A pair of first-years with scraped knuckles. A fourth-year with a scuffed boot and a big voice that got smaller when Lyra looked at him. Two nervous kids who kept their hands clenched. I ticked boxes, asked names, and shifted people to the bench when the line thickened.
"Good," Lyra said, not looking up.
A proctor dropped a crate. "Loan cloaks for Convoy," he called.
Lyra handed me the tag box. "Write neat," she said. "Everything we lose, we pay for."
We tagged and logged cloaks. When my hour ended, she scanned the marks. "No errors," she said. "Thank you."
"You keep this place running," I said. "I only borrowed a pen."
"Prep," she said. "Weather chart is posted."
