Four minutes passed in the alleyway. Four minutes measured only by the steady, freezing drip of rain from the roof edges and the distant, underground thrum of the River weir bypass roaring beneath the valley. Len stood pressed against the rough boards of the coal shed, his sounding pole resting across his right boot, his braced arm throbbing with a rhythmic, sickening heat that made his vision pulse at the margins. The cold rain soaked through his woolen coat, chilling his skin until his teeth clicked together in a slow, reflex rhythm. But he refused to shift his stance. In the dark of Rookvale, an unmonitored movement invited disaster.
The iron latch of the cellar door clicked. Hollis Fenn slipped out into the drizzle. He was followed by two burly quarrymen wearing thick leather coats and carrying heavy timber pry-bars.
Hollis leaned close, his breath hot against Len’s ear. “The boy is in the cellar,” he whispered, wiping rain from his nose. “He’s sitting on an overturned salt crate beside the boiler, counting emergency wool blankets with Doma’s kitchen girl. He never left the room, Len. He has been in the dry for three hours.”
Len didn’t exhale in relief. He had known the answer before Hollis had run the errand. But hearing the physical truth confirmed by a living witness settled the cold iron in his chest.
