Len held the boy against his sound right side. He felt the rapid, wild fluttering of Tavi’s heart against his own ribs. The amber light from the hovering slate leaked through the tears in Tavi’s wool coat. It cast long, shivering sharp-angled shadows across the grease-slicked timbers of the landing.
Every time the countdown dropped another ten seconds, the shaking through the boy’s chest seemed to sharpen. It sent a fine, metal tremor into Len’s palm. It was the physical signed name of an open country account. The terrible moving pressure of an unanchored milestone waiting for a legal signed name or a midnight theft.
Heavy clogs hammered on the lower rungs of the iron ladder.
Doma Reel hauled herself onto the overhead frame landing. She took the final two rungs in a single, surging heave that set the timber handrail groaning. Her broad face was crimson from the heat of the soup vats. Her white linen apron was stained with oat porridge, coal smudge, and yellow turnip broth. Her graying hair was escaping from her wool kerchief in wet, stringy wisps. She carried a battered tin oiler in her belt and a folded square of dry flannel over her forearm, smelling of woodsmoke and boiled lard.
