Mid-afternoon sun warmed the weathered ash planks of the drying shed worktable. That turned the amber grain of the wood a deep, golden honey.
Davren Venn stood beside the table, leaning his hip against the bench to take the weight off his braced left knee. In his hand, he held the small piece of sharpened red chalk he had taken from his pocket. Across the table, Kezra Venn sat on a low three-legged stool, her elbows resting on the clean linen margin of his spring route chart.
Between them lay Davren’s ash walking stick and Kezra’s brass-tipped sounding rod, resting side by side like old comrades who had earned their retirement from violence.
“Take the chalk, Kezra,” Davren said, pushing the red stick across the linen. “You’re the master map maker. You should mark the key.”
Kezra picked up the chalk, feeling the dry, dusty stone crumble faintly against her thumb.
“I’m an ordinary land-mapper on six days of forced rest, Davren,” Kezra reminded him with a dry smile. “And before I put a single mark on this linen, you need to understand something very clearly.”
Davren raised an eyebrow, his head tilting with familiar, wry curiosity. “Another lecture on soil shear strength?”
