The shift from the reeking sulfur floor of the Tramway interchange to the eastern agricultural terrace struck Len like a wet blanket across the face. Heat in Rookvale was never free. It had to be pumped, flued, and paid for in coal units or diverted town current. Here beneath the low stone vaulting of the Orchard Ward, sixty meters above the river basin, the air hung thick with soaked humidity and the sweet, decaying reek of mushroom compost.
Rows of long timber cloches stretched into the darkness, lit up only by overhead copper troughs that cast a greenish, oil-poor twilight over pale fungal caps and stunted citrus bushes. The copper hoods had been hammered thin by years of upkeep, their lower lips pitted with green rust that dripped into the lime-washed gutters below.
Len kept his right hand hooked inside the leather strap of his sounding pole. He felt the dull, rhythmic throbbing in his left forearm where Doma’s horsehair stitches still held the skin together. The linen bandage beneath his rough wool sleeve felt damp and hot against the flesh. Every sharp jolt from his boots on the uneven flags sent a throb through the outward bone. His pocket watch, tucked into his breast pocket against his ribs, ticked with clockwork indifference: 14:15. Nine hours and forty-five minutes remained before global midnight.
