At eleven-thirty in the morning, Pella stood before the black slate briefing board in Sister Merrow’s washroom with a stick of white chalk in her right hand and the crimson-streaked tin of Tab Zero-Four hidden inside her left apron pocket.
By morning, the draft through the lower grate had cooled the general air of the museum sub-basement back down to ninety-two degrees. If she wrote PEAK OVERNIGHT. 135°F (TAB 04 MELTED) in the hazard column of the Courtesy Bridge slate, Ada Morland would take one look at the board at twelve-fifteen, refuse to step across the threshold, and cancel the transit on the spot. And at one o’clock, Captain Hest would pour four hundredweight of molten lead into Hal Rook’s water chute.
It was only a transient pocket at three in the morning, Pella told herself, her stomach knotting as her thumb rubbed the cold groove of solidified crimson wax in her pocket. The room is ninety-two degrees right now. Five minutes on the gauge, and the ward is saved.
Her chalk touched the slate. In the outside column, she wrote in neat, steady block numerals: Nearby TEMP: 92°F · DRAFT CLEAR · SHORING Checked. She left the overnight peak line blank, laid the chalk in the tray, and didn’t look at Sister Merrow.
