The cold wind roaring through the cleared water chute had turned the damp dark rock walls fully dry within an hour. The fine river silt that had coated the stones for fourteen years had desiccated into pale gray dust, blowing away in the gale and leaving the ancient stonework exposed in all its rugged, massive glory.
Pella knelt on an empty burlap sack before the central keystone of the relief throat. Her fingers, though raw at the cuticles, moved with patient respect as she used a stiff-bristle horsehair brush and a sponge dipped in clean spring water to wash away the leftover traces of brown beetle wax from the dressed face of the granite top door beam.
Two paces behind her, Korr Var sat cross-legged on a pine board. His brass measured tongs in his left hand and his leather-bound town survey register resting across his knees. He had trimmed three goose quills to fine, chisel-pointed nibs. An inkhorn of jet-black dark oak-ink hung from a brass button on his waistcoat.
“Gently with the sponge, Miss Rook,” Korr instructed. He leaned forward until his glasses were six inches from the stone. “Don’t scrub across the edges of the incisions. The Roman masons used a ninety-degree V-cut with a backup edge on the serifs. If you break the lime crust too wildly, you’ll round the corners of the letters.”
