Chapter 14: Safehouse Of Glass
East of Marrowgate, the dawn came slow, a gradual unfreezing in which the river’s fog retreated inch by inch before the push of sunlight.
The glassworks crouched at the edge of the marsh: a humped, rambling structure of kiln-brick and patched-together timber, outbuildings like barnacles on its flanks.
The windows, some shattered, some warped with age, gave back only dim reflections, and the main door had long ago been replaced with a curtain of copper chains that tinkled a warning at every wind.
Nik led the way, shouldering through the beads with the self-assurance of a local.
Inside, heat pressed against them, heavy with the memory of old fires and newer debts.
Racks of warped glass, bottles, beads, tubes for who knew what, lined the walls, and scraps of failed experiments glittered on every shelf. The air itself tasted faintly of lye and something medicinal.
A woman stood at the far workbench, arms plunged to the elbow in a bath of blue liquid. She did not turn as they entered, but the line of her back stiffened, and Apollo saw the glint of a dagger poised at her hip.
Her hair was braided in a style Apollo didn’t recognize, it was tight against the scalp, then loosed in a cascade of pale gold.
When she straightened, her eyes, a deep, improbable green, landed on Nik, then flicked once to Apollo.
"You’re late," she said. Her voice was clear, almost uninflected, as if she’d practiced neutral for so long it had become her only true accent.
"We had company," Nik replied, sweeping a hand at the bruises on his chin. "And I brought a friend."