The tin wash basin sat on a low wooden bench near the cold-water delivery tap, filled to the brim with clear, icy runoff.
Len set his ash sounding pole against the stone wall. He pulled his sound right arm from the sleeve of his wool coat. Then he let the heavy, blood-spotted garment slide down his back. The fabric was stiff with dried silt, kerosene residue, and the black carbon grease of the pump casing. He unbuttoned the front of his gray linen shirt with his right hand, peeling the damp cloth away from his chest where the violet progress band still radiated an unnatural, feverish heat against the bone.
He dipped his right hand into the basin, scooped up a palmful of icy water. Then he splashed it wildly across his face and neck.
The shock of the cold was immediate and bracing. It cut through the heavy, rotten-egg film that coated his skin, washing away the grit of the coal chimney pipes and the bitter smell of tannery runoff. He scrubbed his forehead and throat with a coarse linen rag, wringing out gray, greasy water into the drainage trough beneath the bench.
“Sit on the stool, courier,” Doma Reel commanded. She stepped up beside him with a clay pot crock and a roll of fresh, boiled cotton bandage.
