Tosk had put the chalk mark on the stone wall.
Iven nearly looked past it. The work lay above them, where the cookhouse extension’s broad roof met the older building. Tosk tapped the wall with the chalk and made him look lower.
“That’s where it comes back.”
“Water?”
“Wind. Water follows after.”
The roofer’s jacket had been patched across both shoulders with a different shade of brown. He stood on the old Sill side of the cookhouse yard, beside a stack of sound timber he had refused to let the receiving crew take upstairs.
Neri bent to examine the pale weather marks beneath the chalk.
“How high in the hard rain?”
