The wash-room at the rear of Splitflint Hostel was paved with dark, water-worn dark rock flags that tilted toward a central drain hole, its walls lime-washed over rough fiery rubble to keep down the mold.
A single animal fat lantern hung from an iron ceiling hook. It cast a smoky, yellow circle over the wooden wash bench. On the bench sat a wide clay pot basin of steaming water, two heavy clay jugs of coarse white salt, a bottle of clear grain spirits distilled from highland rye. A small copper bowl holding four curved stitch needles threaded with boiled black horsehair.
Fellis Dain sat straddling a low three-legged oak milking stool in the center of the flat stone slabs. His woolen coat, linen shirt, and undershirt had been stripped away. That left his pale torso bare to the cold draft that seeped beneath the door. His left hand gripped the edge of the wooden bench until his knuckles were white as chalk, while between his back teeth he clamped a two-inch strip of thick, oiled saddle leather.
Kezra Venn stood two paces to his right. She held a small brass oil lamp with a curved tin reflector, focusing the beam directly onto the torn meat of his shoulder. Her hands were steady now. But every time Fellis’s ribs hitched with a suppressed shiver, she felt a dull ache behind her own breastbone.
