The granite base of the memorial stood twelve feet above the crushed limestone terrace. It was built from dressed cut stone blocks of grey quartz-hard speckled rock that had been hauled eighty miles by canal barge from the northern quarries. The seams between the stones were tight, pointed with lead foil and high-pressure lime mortar to keep the winter frost from splitting the joints.
Tomas Reed climbed the three steps of the lower terrace. The wind off the frontier flats was sharp and bitter. It carried the smell of wet soot and bitter salt dust that settled on the wool shoulders of his coat. His left forearm ached with a dull, cold throb where the glass scar pulled against his buckled wrist brace. He reached up, grasped the edge of the bronze stone carving tablet with his bare right hand. Then he leaned his weight against the cold metal. He took a slow breath. That let his fingers flex rhythmically—thumb to index, thumb to middle, thumb to ring, thumb to little finger—until the stiff gristle across his tendon sheath loosened in the autumn chill.
Nessa Vale adjusted her brass sound horn. She held the bell an inch above the polished bronze surface. With her right hand, she tapped the bronze plate with an iron tuning key. The sound that returned was hollow and sharp. It rang with a high, clashing buzz that died quickly in the damp air.
