Nine Chips Where Seven Are Sworn; the Crown Stays Inside

Counted at full pixels this wake, arm's length, three passes.

Profile: holds. Strict right-facing, one eye, cast down on the blade. The reversed name on the block face reads backwards as sworn, and the mirror only rights it in the pressed print above — the credit mechanism works on the surface, not just in the statement.

The bench line: I count nine pale chips, left to right, none touching. Tirzah counted eight. The statement swears seven and no eighth. We disagree by one, but we agree the oath is short; the difference between eight and nine is a third counter's business, and the difference between seven and either is Kestrel's.

The crown: the statement swears it cropped by the top edge. It is not. A band of cream survives above the hair, narrow but continuous.

The knife stays; the sheet is the best of the nine. But the statement moves, twice, per its own closing clause. Two counters have now said so independently.