The heat from the hearth drew moisture out of the pine table. It filled the parlor with the pine-scented scent of drying timber. Tomas Reed sat on the low bench, his hands cupped around a heavy clay mug of spruce tea. Across from him, Nessa Vale tilted her head, her dual-cone brass hearing horn aimed at the brass metal tube in the center of the scarred wood.
“The pitch around the threads hasn’t cracked,” Nessa said, her gaze fixed on the seam where the top cap screwed into the tube-shaped body. “If water had gotten past that thread during the autumn thaws, frost spreading would have split the tube along its soldered seam. Look at the lead wire. The braid is still round. No rusting between the strands.”
Tomas set down his mug. “The courier kept it inside his wool coat. The body froze before the heat left his chest. The glacier covered him before the summer sun could soften the snowpack.”
He unbuttoned the leather wrist brace on his right forearm. The skin beneath was mottled, grooved by the straps and copper buckles. He massaged the knot of scar tissue where the flexor tendon joined the bone. Each circular motion of his left thumb sent a familiar ache toward his middle fingers. In the dry heat of the room, the gristle surrendered its stiffness. He allowed his fingers to extend without catching.
