The heavy oak door of the mill workshop slammed shut with a concussive boom that rattled the iron adzes hanging from the tool rack.
Alden Bram kicked the floor bolt into its stone socket with the heel of his work-boot. The screech of the swollen river was instantly muffled, transformed into a deep, vibrating hum that pulsed through the floor timbers and the thick fieldstone walls. The workshop smelled of wood shavings, boiled linseed oil, sulfur matches, and the sharp, alkaline sting of damp mortar powder.
Bram did not light a lantern. Gray daylight fell through the high river-facing transom, illuminating the long drafting bench strewn with charcoal sticks, lead plumb-bobs, and brass dividers. The master mason walked over to a stack of barley sacks piled in the corner, brushed away a layer of chaff, and lowered his bulk onto the rough burlap.
“Sit,” Bram said, pointing a calloused finger toward an upturned keg of square-head iron nails.
Jon did not take the keg. He remained standing by the drafting bench, his coat wet with river spray, his hands resting easily at his sides. The nine white rings around his fingers caught the dim northern light.
“You have words to spend,” Jon said. “Speak them.”
