The morning bell of Ironfang Academy tolled six times across the upper courtyards, its brass chime muffled by sixty feet of damp stone and vaulted stonework before reaching the quiet depths of Annex 4.
Arthur Vance stood over the cast-iron stove, stirring a light infusion of crushed dandelion root and warm animal fat broth in an enameled saucepan. On the timber bench beside him, Grimm lay stretched out on his side, his black glass-plated paws twitching in a deep, rhythmic dream.
Across the room on the zinc check table, Pip was conducting a secret morning check of Arthur’s workspace.
The Scorch-Sparrow had discovered that while his wire-and-resin splint prevented him from bending his left hock, it functioned passably well as a stiff peg-leg. The bird moved with a strange, aggressive rhythm: hop-clink, hop-clink. He navigated the rows of glass test chemical bottles, cocking his head at each stoppered jar, his golden-rimed pupils dilating with intense curiosity. When he found an empty brass measuring tongs, he gave it two vigorous pecks to ensure it was dead, puffed his singed crest, and marched on.
The heavy oak door rattled, followed by the sound of rapid, wild fumbling at the iron latch.
The door flew inward, bouncing against the stone wall.
