The iron drain grate behind the washhouse rattled in the dark.
A wet scraping sound echoed through the pipe, accompanied by the muffled jingle of chain links and ragged coughing. A second later, two trembling hands shoved a stained pigskin bundle up through the muddy culvert opening.
Barnaby Holt was already waiting at the rim.
With a swift jerk of his left hand, the old herbalist hauled Garrick Vance out of the drainage trench, dumping him onto the damp flagstones like a soaked carp.
“Don’t yell,” Barnaby growled, pressing his wooden ladle firmly against Garrick’s larynx. “If your clanking wakes Mina, I’ll shove you back into the pipe headfirst.”
Garrick pressed his palms flat against the cold stone, wheezing through clenched teeth. He clutched three tight rolls of yellowed oilskin against his chest with his left arm, while a small, notched wooden abacus dangled from a greasy hemp cord around his wrist.
“I brought them,” Garrick whispered, his voice trembling so hard his jaw clicked. “Every muster sheet... every lock combination... the full furnace ledger...”
Kaelen didn’t get up from his wicker chair on the back porch. He lifted his warm teacup with both hands, letting the steam rise against his chin while he watched his second brother through the lantern light.
