A light drizzle began to fall as the sun sank behind the ridgeline, turning the dusty surface of the terrace into a dark, fragrant slurry. The raindrops were small and scattered, misting through the warm summer air without the force of a full storm, but they brought a sudden, sharp scent of damp earth and crushed clover that filled the valley basin.
Instead of retreating to the dry shelter of the workshop, Damon and I remained down in the drainage trench, working by the dim yellow glow of a horn lantern hung from an oak tripod. We were placing the final capping slabs over the gravel channel we had spent the afternoon laying. Each slate tile was three feet long, heavy, and rough-edged, requiring both of us to position it squarely over the subterranean bed so that no earth would slough into
