THE FOUNDATION OF STONE

In late autumn, when the sugar maples in Becket were shedding their fiery crimson leaves over the quarry road, an old bus dropped a lone passenger at the crossroads two miles from the stone works.

Victoria walked up the dirt road, carrying a single canvas duffel bag.

Her designer heels were gone, replaced by worn leather walking shoes; her hair was tied back in a simple ponytail. Her face was thin, hollow, and lined with the deep, painful exhaustion of ten months spent working as an assistant clerk in a legal aid office in Hartford.

She reached the iron gates of the quarry.

Through the trees, the steady, rhythmic sound of hammers striking steel echoed across the valley.

In the open yard of the stone barn, eight young apprentices were gathered around a massive block of grey granite.

Standing in the center was Ellen, wearing a canvas apron covered in stone dust, holding a wooden drafting ruler as she guided a nineteen-year-old apprentice named Marcus in laying out the draft line for a structural arch stone.

Victoria stopped at the threshold of the barn, her hands clutching the straps of her bag, tears welling in her eyes as she watched her mother.

Ellen looked up, pausing mid-sentence.

She set her ruler down on the granite, took off her work gloves, and walked across the sawdust-covered gravel.