The wagon rumbled into the fortified courtyard of the Tram Ward depot, its iron wheels clattering across the wet cobblestones before coming to a halt beneath the massive brick archway of the main repair shed.
Len climbed down from the wagon bed with painful slowness, his boots hitting the stones with a dull thud, his right hand gripping the tailgate to steady his trembling knees. His left arm was a dead, throbbing weight in its ash splints, the swelling pressing hard against the linen wraps. But his mind was clear, stripped of the feverish panic that had haunted his first three midnights.
Doma Reel emerged from the kitchen doorway. She carried a tin cup of hot chicory water mixed with a spoonful of black treacle. She shoved the cup into Len’s good right hand without a word, her sharp eyes scanning his pale face, his bloodshot eyes, and the rigid line of his sling.
“You look like a drowned mule, Vey,” Doma said, her voice gruff, hiding the fierce, maternal relief that softened the corners of her mouth.
“I feel like a drowned mule, Doma,” Len replied. He took a scalding sip of the chicory. He felt the bitter heat burn down into his hollow stomach. “The midnight passed. No transfer. The hunter has nothing new.”
