Thursday arrived with the particular quality of late-season cold that came down from the Niel Mountains after dark — not the damp cold of the outer districts but something drier and sharper, the kind that cleared the head and made the air feel more precise than it had any right to.
The preparation room Lyon had apparently lent the key to — or had the key borrowed from without entirely consenting — was a small stone chamber off the medical wing's secondary corridor, used during training cycles to store equipment between procedures and currently not in use for anything except the storage of three empty cots and a table that had survived more decades of purpose than was obvious from looking at it. It smelled of carbolic and old wood, and the single lamp Jacob had placed on the table produced enough light to see by and not much more.
