The second datum pin was scheduled to be driven into the outer low roof wall pier at one hundred and twenty feet. There, a backup decorative molding projected three feet beyond the tower’s sheer face.
Tomas Reed stood upon the narrow stone ledge, his boots braced against the wet granite, his canvas safety lanyard snapped into the heavy iron eyebolt above his head. The river wind was rising steadily from the northwest. That brought with it a fine, freezing drizzle that slickened the polished marble fluting until it felt like wet soap beneath his leather palms.
Twenty feet below, on the lower balcony, Nessa was adjusting the brass leveling screws of her transit, preparing to take the upright angle between the two benchmarks. Beside her, Sile held the guide-line of the hauling tackle, his knuckles white around the wet manila.
“Hold the chisel plumb, Tomas!” Nessa shouted through her brass horn, the flared bell catching the wind like a tiny sail. “I need the center-punch lined up within five hundredths of an inch to clear the sightline to the church steeple!”
Tomas set the cold chisel against the mortar joint, his right forearm aching with the familiar, dull throb of cold gristle. He drew his breath in through his nose, raising the three-pound steel hammer for the strike. He bent his stiff fingers—thumb to index, thumb to middle—feeling the cold wind biting through the wool lining of his glove.
