Julian Vance did not pull his arm backward.
He knew the physics of the machine pressing against him. If he fought against the hickory pointer with raw muscle, the leverage of Matron Bell’s seven-foot frame would snap his radius and ulna like dry pine kindling.
The brass tip of the pointer drove his knuckles forward through the freezing air.
Zero point five inches from the wood.
If his skin touched the oak panel of Door 312 a fourth time, Brass Rule Two would execute. The Seat-Filler’s blackened claws would close around his wrist, dragging him into the void beyond the threshold.
Instead of fighting backward, Julian dropped his weight straight down.
His boots dropped two inches, flexing at the knees. With his free left hand, he reached down to the floorboards, sweeping his gloved fingers across the cold linoleum.
His fingertips found the taut, thirty-foot waxed-linen cord tied by Lin Mei.
