The sulfur dust in the west nook didn’t lie on the shelves. It hung in the air like a dry, yellow fog that tasted of burnt matches and powdered copper.
Seventy years before, after a devastating outbreak of silverfish and book-lice had destroyed three hundred volumes of the Royal Tax Rolls, the High court had sealed the lower stacks and burned two tons of sulfur cakes in iron fire bowls. The gas had killed the insects. But the yellow residue had coated every surface, sinking into the leather bindings, the cedar shelves, and the mortar joints. When the river dampness seeped into the vault, the sulfur powder reacted with the moisture. That created a dilute sulfuric film that ate through iron nails and turned linen stitching into brittle black threads.
Tomas stopped three paces into the nook, a violent fit of coughing tearing through his chest. His throat burned as if he had swallowed lime-dust. His eyes watered so badly the lantern flame smeared into an indistinct yellow halo.
“Put the cloths on,” Hester Quill ordered from behind him. Her voice was muffled and strange.
She had produced three squares of heavy linen from her basket, soaked in cider vinegar and water. She tied one across her own nose and mouth, handed one to Olla. Then she pressed the third into Tomas’s hand.
