The shock of waking struck Jon Hale like a plunge into winter river water.
He opened his eyes with a violent, ragged gasp that dragged the cold cellar air deep into his burning lungs. His boots were flat against the limestone flagstones of the River Lantern; his back was pressed against the familiar, damp lime-washed wall beneath the third ale tun.
Overhead, through the thick oak timbers of the cellar ceiling, the iron parish bell of St. Jude tolled the sixth hour of the morning.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
It was Flood Month Day 9.
Life Thirteen had begun.
Jon lay motionless on the cold stone for three slow breaths, his senses registering the miraculous, impossible stillness of the world. There was no whistling screech of the Crown Furnace tearing through the granite bedrock. There was no thunder of imperial counterweight engines hurling four-hundred-pound river boulders into the orchard. The sickening reek of burned fat, boiled wool, and spilled wine lees had vanished completely, replaced by the clean, sharp autumn scents of malted barley, wet river sand, and fresh yeast rising in the kitchen above.
Then he looked down at his chest.
