Heavy wicker baskets scraped across the cellar floorboards as Deacon Vane hauled eighty pounds of raw mineral ore down the stone stairs.
The old clerk’s face was flushed crimson, and his spectacles sat crooked on the bridge of his sweaty nose.
Behind him, Barnaby Holt carried a massive iron-bound cedar chest in his single arm, balancing the weight against his hip with gruff, muttered curses.
In the center of the warm cellar, the great oval bath tub had been filled to the brim with boiling spirit steam from the subterranean bypass pipe.
The water was crystal clear, swirling with faint ribbons of subterranean mineral warmth.
Kaelen Vance stood beside the water in a loose linen robe, untying his cloth sash with lazy indifference.
“Dump them all in,” Kaelen said, pointing a finger at the tub.
Deacon Vane stopped, setting his wicker basket down on the flagstones with a trembling clatter.
