The dawn light filtered through the high, heavy air-flow grates of Sub-Level 4. It cast long, slanted shafts of pale gold across the concrete floor of Workshop Bay 12. The underground chamber smelled of clean machine oil, damp stonework. The mouth-watering, savory aroma of braised beef knuckle bones simmering slowly over Toby’s electric fire bowl. The morning was cool. But the rhythmic hum of the radiator pipes kept the workshop at a comfortable seventy-two degrees.
Arthur Vance sat on a low wooden stool beside the main check table. He held Vesper’s right forelimb lightly in his cupped left palm. The black silk stitches from her tendon graft had been fully removed twenty-four hours earlier. That left only a faint, hairline seam of silvery skin along her lateral wrist joint.
With calm, razor-sharp gentleness, Arthur checked the deep flexor tendon. His thumb tested the elastic rebound of the tissue.
“Extend,” Arthur commanded in a low, quiet voice.
Vesper sat upright on the stainless-steel table, her left ear twitching with a haughty flick, but she complied. Her toes spread smoothly, and five needle-sharp claws emerged from their fur sheaths with an oiled, air-powered click. They were no longer the dull horn-protein talons of a starved alley stray. They were semi-clear blades of dark, living Gengjin alloy that caught the morning light with a rainbow-bright black glass sheen.
