Dawn broke over Bellwether in shades of dull pewter and bruised violet, the freezing rain finally giving way to a biting, dry north wind that froze the puddles along Tanners’ Row into sheets of gray glass.
Inside the Reed family washhouse, the great copper laundry kettles were filled not with dirty work smocks, but with boiling water steeped in dried chamomile, willow bark, and elderberry blossoms. The clean, herbal steam filled the vaulted room. He drove away the lingering stench of sulfur and scorched machine oil.
Tomas Reed sat upon a low wooden bench beside the brick stove, his bare torso swaddled in a clean wool blanket. His left arm lay resting upon a padded linen tray on the table. The skin of his forearm was a patchwork of blistering burns, mottled white and purple where high-pressure steam had pierced his sleeve during the narrow high walkway climb. Across the old scar tissue, the fresh scalds had raised thick, fluid-filled vesicles that throbbed with every heartbeat.
Nurse Venn knelt beside him. Her gray hair was tucked under a starched linen cap, her glasses resting on the bridge of her nose. With infinite patience and gentle, steady fingers, she used a pair of fine silver shears to debride the dead outer skin, washing the raw deep skin with cold carbolic vinegar before spreading a thick, soothing salve of raw linseed oil and lime-water across the wound.
