Lime Laid Down for Strangers

For sixty-four minutes no light came down to the Lake Road, and the only glow at Coldharbour Kiln was Aldous Penhallow’s own fire, a red eye in the draw-hole that cared nothing for the Lantern. Up the valley the lamps guttered house by house. The barge for Longmere sat at the staithe with its hatches open, waiting on a catch that would not come, and the sky over the hill had begun to smell of rain.

Quicklime and rain do not keep company. Wynn Treloar stood at the cart with the lodge purse in both hands, as if holding it tighter would make it fuller. When the Antswarm’s bell finally carried down the valley, so did the rate: four drops and three-tenths a span. “Twice the morning’s,” Wynn said. “Wait for the next one. Or the one after.”

“Four long darks in twenty,” Aldous said. “The next one may be an hour. The rain’s sooner.”

He split the load. Half went aboard at the Antswarm’s price, enough for the masons to keep mortaring the north aisle through the week. The other half he tipped into the old pit behind the kiln, ran water onto it, and stood back while it hissed and heaved into white putty. He laid boards over it and weighted them with rubble.

“That’s lost,” Wynn said.

“That’s laid down. Ten years in the ground and it’s the best mortar there is.” Aldous wiped his hands. “Someone we’ll never meet will thank us for it, or curse the boards.”