The sky above the northern ridge had taken on the pale, watery sheen that usually preceded the late-summer atmospheric shifts. A cool subterranean breeze blew down through the valley gorge, sweeping across the stone terrace where the iron-bound wash vat sat upon its raised brick hearth.
Instead of working with wood or masonry, our focus for the day had shifted toward domestic preservation. I stood beside a broad zinc-lined trough filled with cold river water, scrubbing a batch of raw sheep wool that had been harvested from the highland pastures during the summer shear. The wool was heavy with grease and dust, requiring a thorough washing in a mild lye bath made from wood ash and spring water before it could be dried, carded, and spun into winter yarn.
A few steps away, Damon was tending
