The zinc table had been cleared of blood basins, soiled lint, and bone needles. That left only the tools needed for an overland crossing under curfew.
Doma worked at the far corner of the bench, wrapping two greaseproof parchment parcels of cold salt pork and hard ship-biscuit. Her thick fingers moved with practiced economy, folding the waxed edges tight and binding them with rough hemp twine. Beside her sat three sealed flasks of boiled well-water and a flat tin of sulfur matches. In the iron sink, the leftovers of the willow-bark decoction had cooled to a dark, bitter scum that smelled of wet autumn leaves and charred copper.
Len sat on the edge of a low bench, resting his left forearm against his ribs. The clean linen sling Doma had knotted behind his neck supported the limb from elbow to wrist, immobilizing the radius and taking the strain off the eight black horsehair stitches. The throbbing had pulled back into a steady, dull ache. A bruised stiffness that flared only when he turned his torso too quickly or allowed his shoulder to drop. His right hand rested on his knee, his fingers flexing against the rough wool of his trousers.
