The metal-on-metal screech of the gravity tender's handbrake did not carry the clean, pressurized hiss of a modern pneumatic line. It was a raw, dry scrape of unlubricated cast iron against a rusted steel wheel, a sound that vibrated straight through the soles of Elara's boots and into her teeth.
The air in the subterranean vault was rapidly cooling, but it remained heavy with the choking, sulfuric stench of wet coal dust and the bitter tang of the selenium fire dying in the flues above.
Elara stepped onto the narrow wooden footboard of the lead tender, her grey eyes reflecting the dull, sputtering yellow glow of the hand-lamp Sarah had hooked over the vehicle's iron nose-plate. Her charcoal coat was soaked through, the freezing weight of the bay water clinging to her limbs, but she did not let her posture break. Her hand remained clamped over the gold foil ribbon, her raw, linen-wrapped fingers stiffening in the damp draft.
