Sera tapped the flat of her iron dagger against the black wax sealing the cylinder’s rim.
“Put it in the salt trough,” Kaelen said from his hammock, not opening his eyes. “Opening lead-sealed cylinders at night is bad for the liver meridian. The sulfur fumes ruin a man’s sleep.”
Twenty-five hours of quiet slumber, autumn breeze, and roasted barley tea passed over Stone-Willow Lane.
Now the golden glow of the next evening bathed the cedar veranda planks in a warm, amber light.
Beside the low tea table, Mina Vance carefully poured fresh spring water into the brass kettle, listening to the gentle hiss of the charcoal brazier.
Near the garden steps, Barnaby Holt hauled a small cedar lockbox from the washhouse, setting it beside Sera Thorne’s pine stool.
Deacon Vane retrieved the heavy, lead-jacketed cylinder from the salt trough, drying the damp metal with a clean linen cloth.
From inside his hemp hammock, Kaelen lay flat on his back, a folded cotton towel draped over his eyes to block out the twilight.
