The small bedroom beneath the western roof edges smelled of dried lavender, sheep’s animal fat. The dry, lime-washed cedar laths of the ceiling.
It was the same room Kezra had slept in since she was six years old. The pine bedstead, built by her father before his lungs had given out in the third clay pit, still bore the three shallow gouges she had carved into the corner post with a blunt chisel on her tenth birthday. On the washstand sat the small clay pot pitcher with the chipped lip that Maud had given her as a testing piece. Just then, she first tried the kick-wheel, and beside the iron boot-jack lay her trail boots. Their soles heavy with fresh Saltglass leather, the laces greased with mutton fat, the welt-threads stiff with lime dust from the chiseled yard.
Kezra sat on the edge of the mattress in her clean linen nightshirt, her bare feet resting on the woven rag rug. On the low pine table beside the bed, a single animal fat candle burned in a clay pot saucer. Its yellow flame leaned slightly toward the draft that seeped through the dried cedar shutter seam.
In her lap lay the Bonded Survey Notebook.
