Two minutes remained before sky-high midnight.
Inside the vast, underground tram kitchen, the air had grown cold and still, chilled by the northern draft that whistled beneath the heavy oak delivery door. The four hanging copper lanterns burned with steady, emerald flames. Their reflectors cast deep green halos across the zinc prep table, lighting up the three tuned manometers and the open pages of Deren Vey’s survey logs.
Along the eastern wall, the eighty children remained asleep on their straw pallets, their breathing soft and rhythmic beneath the coarse gray wool blankets. The three five-hundred-gallon soup cooking pots stood silent on the banked hearth, their dark iron rims cold to the touch. They smelled faintly of turnip skins and very thirsty peas.
Len Vey stood in the center of the hall, his boots planted firm on the damp flat stone slabs. With his sound right hand, he unbuttoned the brass buttons of his wool courier coat, parted the heavy fabric. Then he peeled back the collar of his linen undershirt. He exposed his bare chest to the green lantern light.
Bram Ash, Ivara Quill, and Doma Reel stood around him in a tight, motionless semicircle.
Bram held his copper candle-lantern close to Len’s ribs, the pale light highlighting the young courier’s pale skin and the dark shadow of his collarbones. Across Len’s upper left chest and forearm, the clean linen wrappings remained pinned tight. It held the eight horsehair stitches rigid against his torn muscle.
