The sub-basement beneath Heseltine’s sickness wing didn’t share the sterile chill of the running rooms above. Here, thirty feet below the street level, the foundations met the massive brick channel that carried hot exhaust gas from the academy’s central blast furnaces toward the outer smoke spires. The air was dry and baking, tasting of crushed hematite, scorched coke, and ancient mortar.
In the center of the vaulted chamber stood Heseltine’s private reverberatory test hearth. A squat kiln of fireclay bricks bound in banded wrought-iron straps. Through its mica watching port, a bed of hard coal coals burned with a steady, white-hot glare.
Arthur laid the cedar recovery box on a stone bench three paces from the kiln. Grimm right away set himself beside it, his massive black head resting over his crossed front paws. The hound’s ears swiveled toward the iron chimney pipe pipes overhead. His amber eyes tracked the occasional thud of steam hammers shaking through the stonework. Inside the flannel nest, Pip let out a soft, inquisitive click—clack—his ruby eye catching the dancing hearth reflections.
“Core heat holding at thirty-four point five,” Arthur reported, withdrawing a glass rectal heat gauge from the bird’s flank. “He’s conserving what little glucose he has left. We have about four hours before his outer breath flow shuts down.”
