May came into the valley on the back of six cartloads of dressed river granite and four barrels of Stockholm tar.
High in the north wall of the Grand Hall, Noll felt the first real change in the mortar around his socket since the winter snows had melted. It was not a sudden influx of magical points, nor was it the sharp, electric hum that used to announce a traveler crossing the outer ward. It was a faint, steady pulse of heat—no warmer than a flat river stone left in the morning sun—seeping up from the foundation blocks below the kitchen.
Through the copper speaking tube, the sound of boots climbing the gallery stair was accompanied by the heavy, rhythmic clatter of slate frames and iron calipers.
“Keeper of Works,” a voice muttered down the copper pipe, dripping with dry, unsparing sarcasm. “They had a town meeting on the church lawn, Noll. Two hours of speeches by the aldermen, three prayers by the curate, and then Reeve Holt hands me an iron key as long as my forearm and announces to the parish that I am the Keeper of Works.”
Tessa Dene dropped heavily onto the work stool beneath the niche, unbuckling her leather tool-belt and dropping it onto the bench with a loud, metallic clatter of wrenches and cold chisels.
