Kezra knelt on the dry fiery gravel at the foot of the rear quoin, her knees sinking into the dust without her noticing the cold.
From her canvas satchel, she took a fresh sheet of raw, unwhitened rag paper. She held it against the pale limestone block with her left thumb and forefinger. Her hand was shaking so wildly that the paper fluttered against the stone like a moth’s wing. She had to pause, take three deep, shuddering breaths, and press her palm flat against the cold rock to steady her pulse.
She took the block of yellow beeswax in her right hand. She laid the flat bottom of the wax against the paper and drew it across the stone with firm, level strokes.
The wax caught the raised edges of the limestone grain, darkening the textured background to a rich amber honey. Meanwhile, the cut cleanly lines remained clean and white.
First, the split triangle emerged on the paper. The solid base, the sharp right stroke, and the shortened left slanted.
Then, line by line, the numerals beneath the triangle revealed their shapes.
A one. A zero. A dot. A two. A four.
Tenth Month, Twenty-Fourth Day.
