The blue ozone ring burned steady against the rough pine planks.
Within the thirty-six-inch radius of White Chart Clip #4B, the air remained cool, smelling of sterile saline and tincture of benzoin.
Outside the circle, the ante-chamber was a dark ruin of powdered phosphorus, sheared brass gears, and shattered glass.
Matron Bell paced the edge of the blue light like a caged tiger made of clockwork and cold iron.
Her heavy boots struck the floorboards with rhythmic, jarring crashes:
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
Her right wrist sputtered with angry blue electrical sparks where the negative twenty-four volt discharge had fried her contact brushes.
A thin trail of grey smoke drifted from her copper wiring harnesses.
