By noon, the pale autumn sun hung directly over the south lane of Kilnstep, warming the dry limestone rubble and softening the frozen ruts in the drover’s road. The four great beehive kilns stood quiet. It cooled slowly after their autumn firings, their massive brick domes giving off only a faint, trembling shimmer of heat against the pale sky. Only a small tending crew remained in the firing alleys to rake the ash pits and watch the cooling dampers.
Along the south lane, five farm carts stood hitched to quiet mules and draft horses.
There were no shouts, no running feet, and no weeping in the lane. The carts were not being packed in the blind panic of a midnight flight. They were being loaded with the steady, measured economy of farm families preparing for an extended visit to winter kin. Bundles of clean wool blankets, baskets of salted beans, sewing hampers, and wooden tool chests were handed up from cottage thresholds and lashed down beneath oiled sailcloth covers.
Maud Venn stood by the front axle of the lead wagon, her household ledger open across the tailboard, ticking off names with a sharpened carpenter’s pencil.
“Master Burlen,” Maud said, not looking up from the page.
