The candles on the Chief Justices’ dark wood dais had burned down to yellow stumps of animal fat by the fourth hour of the afternoon. Their greasy smoke mixed with the damp chill that rose continuously from the flat stone slabs of the King’s Bench. Outside, the rain had turned into a steady, freezing mist that coated the high traceried windows with beads of moisture, blurring the silhouettes of the capital spires into ghostly gray smudges.
Tomas Reed sat beside Hester Quill at the petitioner’s bar, his ash pack frame resting upright against his boots. He took advantage of the brief procedural recess to unlace his left wrist brace by two notches. His forearm was swollen from the strain of hoisting the heavy lead and cedar evidence dockets, the thick band of white scar tissue burning with an ache that radiated into his knuckles. With his sound right hand, he uncorked a small clay pot phial of warm cider vinegar infused with bruised willow bark, pouring a few drops onto a clean linen rag and working the liquid deep into the tightened tendon sheath. He worked each finger step by step against his thumb. He felt the numb gristle slowly yield until thirty-five percent of his grip strength was safely restored for the next filing.
