Len Vey knelt on the frost-dusted flat stone slabs of the backup cooling court terrace, his right knee braced against the lead-poured seam of the stonework floor. His left arm remained rigid within its cedar splints, strapped tightly across his ribs by four wraps of blackened linen. That left only his sound right hand and his teeth to haul the three-inch canvas leg-loops into posture.
The webbing was thick, double-woven flax harness material salvaged from the heavy freight depot in Tram Ward, stiffened by the sub-zero mountain draft. It smelled of boiled linseed oil, lamp-wax, and old stable dust.
“Step into the cradle, Melli,” Len commanded, his voice muffled around the bitter canvas strap he held clamped between his incisors.
Melli Dorn planted her heavy, iron-shod work boots sixteen inches apart on the stone, her thick legs braced like the foundation timbers of a salt-kiln chimney. She didn’t fidget. She held her leather kiln apron bunched against her stomach with both hands. That let Len pass the backup webbing beneath her broad hips.
With his right hand, Len fished the heavy tongue of the bronze cinch-buckle through the heavy flax eyelet. He hauled the strap tight until the thick canvas bit into the wool of her trousers. He reached up, caught the return tail with his teeth. Then he levered the bronze frame down with his wrist until the dual prongs snapped through the punched holes with a sharp, metal clack.
