The archive of the High Redoubt Hospital of St. Luke sat beneath the stone vaults of the old parish tithe barn, a windowless stone undercroft that smelled of damp straw, dead animal fat candles, and powdered burning lime powder. The walls were built of rough fieldstone mortared with clay, weeping beads of rotten-egg water that trickled down into a central drain choked with dead leaves and rat bones.
Olla held the tin reflector lamp steady. Meanwhile, Hester Quill hauled down an oblong ledger bound in stiff pigskin. The binding was water-stained along the lower boards. The brass clasps were crusted with green rust that flaked away in brittle scales when Hester forced the hasp open with her iron bone folder. Tomas Reed set down his travel case of inks, leveling the folding frame stand table with three wooden wedges cut from dry birch. The floor of the vault was slick with water drops. A cold draft curled around their ankles like river water.
“Year 021 through Year 023,” Hester said, blowing a cloud of archive dust and dead mold spores from the fore-edge. The dust caught in her throat. She coughed into her woolen sleeve before turning the first stiff leaf. “The accounts of Hospital Provost Malvern. Look at the title on the flyleaf: Register of Deceased Levies and Charges Incurred for Sanitary Interment.”
