The yellow flame of the colza oil safety lamp cast long, flickering shadows across the granite dais of the Deep Gallery. There, Dennis Cole’s twenty-two leaves of Welsh roofing slate lay spread upon a clean linen heavy cart cloth.
Tomas Reed sat with his knees pulled up, his scarred left arm resting flat against his thigh to ease the dull, thrumming ache in his wrist. Beside him, Nessa Vale held her ivory magnifying glass over leaf number four, her reed pen poised above a fresh sheet of heavy country rag thick parchment.
“Read the fourth quire, Nessa,” Tomas said, his voice quiet, disciplined, and measured against the deep silence of the tomb. “Every name, every trade rating, and every personal mark.”
Nessa brought the lens closer to the scratched slate. The letters, etched with Dennis Cole’s diamond-point chisel and sealed with clear sheep fat, shone like silver thread against the dark Welsh stone:
‘ACCOUNT 022: Dennis Vance, age 38. Master wedger and timber framer. Born at Old Flint. Indentured Year 011. Married to Sarah Vance. Three children: Dennis (18), Clara (14), Thomas (9). Back wages owed on morning of closure: fourteen silver crowns and two silver coins. Tools deposited at foot of Bench 18. One five-pound wedge-sledge, three hardened steel wedges, one foot-adze. Condition: Clean, serviceable. Message: Tell Sarah the wedding ring is under the hearthstone at Old Flint.’
