The laundry quarters beneath the Luminance Spire smelled of stale lye, wet linen, and three centuries of damp stone.
The old woman walked fast, her grey wool skirts rustling against the cold flagstones as she led Rian down a narrow, unlit stairwell tucked behind the scullery boilers. Her grip on his wrist had loosened, but she had not let go. Rian let her lead him, his hands loose at his sides, taking in the lime-wash that peeled from the vaulted ceiling in long grey curls.
At the bottom of the stairs, she pushed open a heavy oak door bound in rusted iron straps.
The room beyond was tiny and windowless, lit by a single tallow candle stuck to a chipped clay saucer. A narrow cot stood against the far wall, flanked by a low wooden chest and a drying rack draped with grey servant smocks. On the small table beside the candle sat a brass bowl filled with salt and dried mint leaves.
The old woman shut the door behind them and slid an iron bolt into its socket.
