The lead-lined box felt cold in my `[Inventory]`, a heavy secret . We had the A-Rank catalyst, but Thomas's pantry lab was dangerously public. My mother's gaze was sharp, and Marie was always lurking. We needed a secure location.
"The pantry is compromised," I stated flatly that night, finding Thomas cleaning his beakers with a frustrated, meticulous energy. "We need somewhere else."
Thomas didn't look up. "And where do you suggest? The stables? They're crumbling."
"You're the alchemist," I countered. "You need controlled conditions. Think."
He paused, a flicker of something—annoyance, then calculation—crossing his features. "There is... one place. The old wine cellar."
He led the way, carrying his satchel of newly acquired supplies from Oakhaven. The cellar entrance was hidden behind a rotten tapestry in a disused formal dining room, the door's hinges stiff with rust. The air that hit us was cold, damp, and smelled of stone and ancient, spoiled wine.
It was perfect.
