The first smoke went straight up.
For a moment it hung above the rebuilt drivehouse, a dark thread against the pale sky. Then the wind found it and drew it toward the ravine.
Tosk watched until it thinned.
“Roof draws well.”
“The flue draws,” the quarry keeper said.
“That too.”
Inside, Iven knelt beside the reseated bearing with the service book open on the floor. The machine had traveled from the quarry without losing any of the careful marks its keepers had made. Now it stood on a new bed, facing a different pull, beneath a roof built by people who expected to work through rain.
It looked at home sooner than he had expected.
