The morning light filtering through the high air-flow grates of Bay 12 was the color of damp tin. In the quiet corner between Toby’s electronics workbench and the warm copper steam chimney pipe, a padded light metal recovery crate sat with its grated door latched open. Inside, resting on a thick pad of clean wool blankets, was the lynx.
Arthur sat on a low wooden stool three paces away, a clean white baked-clay saucer resting on his knees. On the saucer lay six paper-thin slices of raw prime aether-beef fillet, cut across the grain so the marbling of crimson meat and semi-clear mana-fat glistened under the halogen bulb. The meat had been brought to exact room heat. Neither cold from the refrigerator nor heated by fire.
Beside Arthur’s stool, Grimm lay stretched out on the cold concrete. The hound caught the rich, metal scent of the prime beef, his heavy black tail giving two hopeful, thumping smacks against the floor: thud, thud.
“Not for you, Grimm,” Arthur murmured, keeping his voice quiet and even. “You ate four pounds of roasted marrow bone at midnight.”
Grimm gave a low, disappointed chest rumble, resting his chin back on his paws. Even so, his amber eyes remained locked on the saucer.
