The cold wind at one thousand feet carried the sharp scent of wet grout and crushed dark rock.
Lord Giles Croft stood on the temporary timber staging, squinting through the eyepiece of his sight transit.
Crosshairs settled against the brass target rod held five hundred feet away by young Toby Karr.
The boy stood braced against the high-sky gust, his woolen watch cap pulled down over his ears. That kept the spirit bubble centered with steady grip.
“Three minutes of arc high on the northern bearing,” Giles called across the planking.
He lowered the transit, took a pencil from behind his ear. Then he made a firm mark on his clipboard.
“The cantilever truss is deflecting under the dead load of the dressing slabs.
Duncan, tell the jack crew to slacken the turnbuckles on bay fourteen by two quarter-turns.”
