A silver frost lay thick over the lower paddocks as the first thin shafts of pale sunlight pierced the eastern gap, turning the frozen grass stems into tiny, glistening spikes. The air had a sharp, mineral crispness that made the lungs ache if taken in too quickly. Down in the timber yard, the heavy logs of mountain larch we had felled before the first hard freeze lay stacked under canvas, waiting to be sawn into floorboards for the upper loft.
I carried a brass-bound compass and a long ash marking stick down the terrace steps, my boots leaving dark, defined impressions in the hoarfrost. The work today was different from the stonemasonry and iron-forging of previous weeks. With the lower foundations secured against the damp and the storm shutters latching clean, we were turning our attent
