Early rain swept across the Hudson in fine silver curtains, whispering against the tall glass walls of the south pavilion. By mid-morning, the grey horizon had broken into streaks of washed blue, and the damp air smelled faintly of turned earth, wet stone, and early clover. Down the slope at Stony Point, the ground lay newly cleared and graded around the slate cornerstone set during the spring groundbreaking, awaiting the vertical steel frames that would anchor the public reading halls.
In the glass-enclosed workshop adjoining our residence, a different kind of preparation was underway. Rather than tracking regional liquidity curves or managing administrative transitions, our morning revolved around physical artifacts destined for the subterranean vault.
I sat at a broad workbench of oil
