The iron-smelter fire at the center of the nomad village had not seen fire in six months, its heat-proof bricks cold and caked with dried lichen.
Now, a steady column of white, rotten-egg smoke curled from its chimney. He carried the sharp, healing aroma of boiling willow bark and charred peat moss.
Arthur Vance stood before an improvised distillation pipe hub built from three five-gallon copper carboys, salvaged radiator piping, and two heat-proof glass steam cooler tubes from Dr. Calder’s lab wagon. On his left, Morrigan monitored a brass hydrometer floating in a tall graduated metal tube, her fingers flying as she recorded the specific gravity of the condensing distillate in a greasy notebook.
“Specific gravity is reading one-point-zero-four-two,” Morrigan announced. Her violet eyes shone with the manic focus of a researcher on the verge of a breakthrough. “The willow tannins are co-distilling with the volatile bitter salt esters from the peat ash. But the reaction heat is fluctuating between seventy-four and eighty-one degrees. If it spikes past eighty-two, the salicylic glucosides will denature into inactive catechols. Arthur, the coal fire beneath the boiler is too uneven.”
Arthur looked toward the open hearth beneath the main copper carboy.
Beside the firebox stood Pip.
