The laundry room on nine smelled of mildew and melted wax, the same as it had three days earlier, but there were more candles now and fewer places to stand.
Marcus Webb counted heads without meaning to. Eleven had met the first night. Tonight there were nineteen, crowded between the dead machines, and a few more stood in the hallway outside with their backs to the door. The thinner man had done what he promised. He had gone floor to floor, quietly, and found people who needed very little persuading.
"Twenty-three," the thinner man murmured at his shoulder. "If you count the three on the stairs."
"I count them."
Marcus raised a hand, and the room quieted. Nobody spoke above a whisper anymore. That, too, was new.
