Thermal Draft

Slipping through the cracked storm door, I left the night frost of the garden behind and moved across the dark parquet. In the shadowed corner of the study, a low hiss gave away the cast-iron floor register. Its internal louver had jammed half-shut, vibrating against the furnace draft. I stepped onto the cold scrollwork rim, bracing my boots against the iron filigree. Using the padded tip of my staff, I levered the notched brass wheel on the side. The internal damper swung wide with a muted clack. A steady column of dry, warm air rose into the room. Lowering into a crouch above the warmth, I let my cloak settle.