Without another word, he turned away, the hush of the sanctum folding over his shoulders like another cloak. Each stride into the spiral corridor rang hollow—boot on stone, faint drip of condensation somewhere deep, the soft skitter of dust his passage disturbed. His own heartbeat thumped in his ears, louder than the echoes. It always did after meetings with the sisters—like his pulse couldn't decide whether to sprint or hide.
(You're walking faster than normal,) Cynthia murmured in his mind, warm and observant.
Just getting it done, he told her, though he caught himself rubbing the heel of a palm over the stitch flaring beneath his ribs. The corridor tilted upward toward the old service lifts. As he climbed, the smell of charred wood replaced the sanctum's stale chill, followed by the sharper tang of lamp-oil and wet ink. Fifty steps later he emerged into a narrow passage that led toward the observatory tower.
