The central hearth of the House of First Hands was cold and filled with grey wood-ash that had drifted solid under years of damp mountain air.
Osha knelt in the cold ash without tucking up her skirt and counted three slabs inward from the left-hand corner stone of the fireback. The third slab was a squared piece of dark grey basalt, blackened with old soot around the edges, but unlike its neighbors its mortar seams had been scraped clean and repacked with dry clay.
“Careful of the chimney header,” Ashaun said, stepping into the hearth opening beside Osha. The older woman braced her translucent stone left forearm squarely under the overhanging lintel slab to take any shifting weight, while her functional right hand steadied the side stone. “If the frost loosened the upper course, we don’t want half the flue coming down on your wrists.”
Chaska knelt on Osha’s other side and slipped the flat iron point of a tent-pin into the vertical seam beside the third fireback stone, working the packed clay out in small, dry crumbs.
Nobody spoke while the iron pin scraped against the rock. Outside the doorway, Siv lifted his grey head once at the sound, saw Kiv’s calm hand resting on his knee, and laid his chin back down on the sack. Inside the room, Pip walked quietly to the edge of the hearth flagstones and folded all six legs beneath its patchwork shell, dimming its faint green interior lights until they were no brighter…
