Breaking the Wax

I hauled the cylinder straight to the parlor hearth before the well water could ruin the rug. The rotting cord frayed into threads the second I pulled, but the dark sealing wax on the cap was hard as slate. I pinned the cold brass beneath my left boot, wedged the sharp prong of my dowsing stick under the seal, and bore down with both hands. The dried wax gave way with a crisp pop, flaking into brittle black crumbs across the floorboards. Gripping the tarnished metal with my coat sleeves, I gave the cap one sharp, stubborn twist. It screeched, loosened, and slid open, spilling a narrow grooved brass spindle wrapped in dry greaseproof paper.