The figure that stood upon the stone doorstep of the forge shop doorway didn’t cross the threshold with the heavy, dragging tread of a tired woman whose boots were soaked with ditch water.
It stepped inward with a silence so smooth and weightless that the fine coal grit scattered across the stonework didn’t crunch beneath its soles. The yellow light of the hanging animal fat lamp fell across its shoulders. It caught the crisp, flawless weave of a stiff white linen apron tied with a neat, double-looped bow at the small of its back. Beneath the apron, it wore a high-collared sweater of dark woolen yarn, every stitch taut and even, untouched by the gray lime dust or greasy soot that coated every living garment in the Tram Ward.
Len Vey felt the breath stop in the center of his chest. His right hand, still resting on the steel key ring in his pocket, froze in place, his knuckles going white against the metal.
The face framed by the dark doorway was Doma Reel’s face.
Yet it was a face that had not existed in the waking world for nine winters.
The skin across the high cheekbones was smooth, pale, and firm, showing the faint, healthy bloom of blood circulating beneath tissue that had known morning sunlight. There were no deep, permanent gutters carved around the mouth by twelve years of famine rations. No red, peeling burns along the jawline from boiling lard vats. No gray, hollow shadows bruised beneath…
