A low golden haze rested over the valley floor as the sun mounted the gap between the twin granite spires. The air had shifted subtly overnight, losing the last damp chill of early morning and settling into a warm, dry clarity that carried the sharp scent of sun-baked pine needles and wild honeysuckle. Down by the riverbank, the water moved with a steady, quiet gurgle over smooth river cobbles, its surface sparkling like crushed glass beneath the brilliant sky.
I stood near the south corner of the timber barn, holding an iron drawknife and an adjustable bevel square. I was shaping a set of thick oak pegs to secure the diagonal braces of the new hayloft ladder. The wood beneath my tool was old-growth heartwood, dense and golden-brown, yielding smooth, coiled shavings that smelled richly of
