The wooden test chemical box sat in the center of the whitewashed frame stand table like a razor-sharp kit.
It was made of seasoned pear-wood, six inches square, its brass hinges dulled with sulfur grease to prevent specular glare. Its corners were bound in lead-soldered copper sheet. Ivara Quill lifted the lid with her single sound hand. Then, the aroma that rose from the felt-lined inside cut through the stale smell of chicory and mutton fat like a sharp knife. The pungent, biting tang of fuming strong etching acid, the stone sweetness of alcohol wash, and the oily sharpness of distilled clove.
Inside the case, fitted into velvet-lined circular sockets, sat three small vials of dark amber glass, each sealed with a ground-glass stopper held in place by a wire-twist spring. Beside the bottles lay a pair of horn-tipped tweezers, a clean strip of polished copper plate. A small square of unglazed white fine china.
Len sat on the bench, leaning his good right elbow on the table. Avel sat beside him. His small hands still grabbed the hem of Len’s post coat, his breathing now slow and rhythmic. Even so, his dark eyes never left the amber bottles.
Nessa Tern stood across the table. Her hands shook as she pulled the circular lead disk from her apron pocket. She laid the token on the white fine china plate.
