The black water crossed the brass threshold sill at one eighteen in the morning.
It did not splash. It did not rush.
It crept forward in a flat, greasy sheet, oozing beneath the black rubber door sweep of the front entrance doors like warm motor oil. It smelled of sulfur, rotting bladderwrack, dead barnacles, and century-old maritime tallow.
Suspended in the dark brine were tiny, floating flakes of crimson sealing wax and shredded fibrous parchment from eighteen-eighty-eight admiralty contracts, drifting across the floor like dead autumn leaves.
The moment the dark brine touched the dry linoleum of the vestibule, it hissed against the floor wax, giving off thin white plumes of cold steam. The linoleum cracked beneath the freezing salt, emitting sharp popping sounds like stepping on dry twigs.
Julian Vance stood behind Register 1, his boots planted on the thick black rubber fatigue mat.
He watched the black line advance across the floor.
One inch deep.
