The subterranean chill of the transit tunnels faded into the heavy, suffocating heat of the Cathedral”s basement pathology ward. High above the stone arches, the morning bells of Saint Aurelius chimed six o'clock, their deep, brassy resonance vibrating down through the floorboards and into the iron dissection tables of the lower morgue.
Cattleya adjusted the high linen collar of her medical tunic, scrubbing her hands in a basin of carbolic acid until her skin flared bright red. Her shoulder burned under her starched apron”a sharp, throbbing reminder of the hunter”s claw from the storm basin. She had stitched the wound herself in an alley alcove using silk thread and a curved suture needle, applying a zinc-salve compress to neutralize the strange, non-clotting agent lingering in the tissue
