Kaelen pressed his thumb firmly over the mouth of the jade vial, cutting off the sweet wisp of escaping steam.
“Barnaby,” he said, nodding toward the courtyard-facing wall. “Drop the heavy oak shutters and wedge the iron bar into the bracket. Stuff some greased burlap into the window cracks while you’re at it.”
The old keeper blinked through the lingering steam, his mouth working silently for a breath.
“The shutters?” Barnaby rasped. “The room is already stifling from the bathhouse heat, lad. If we seal the frames, the charcoal fumes—”
“If the Nine-Cauldron Guild’s scent-hounds catch a single draft of this vapor drifting into Stone-Willow Lane, we won’t have to worry about charcoal,” Kaelen said, setting his empty teacup down. “We’ll have twenty Iron Bone inspectors tearing down our front gate before the water kettle boils.”
Barnaby’s weathered face went pale.
He did not argue. The one-armed man dropped his wooden ladle, crossed the room with surprising speed, and hauled the thick oak shutters closed until the iron latch dropped into place with a heavy clunk.
Snatching a roll of greased burlap from his tool basket, Barnaby rammed the oiled cloth into every window seam so not a single wisp of pill fragrance could drift into the alley.
