THE SANCTUARY OF THE HEARTH

In late October, when the Berkshire hills were blazing in brilliant shades of scarlet, amber, and gold, an old rural commuter bus stopped at the highway junction three miles from the mill.

A single passenger stepped down into the gravel shoulder.

It was Sierra.

She had been released on supervised pre-trial probation under a mandatory community service restitution order, while Derek remained in a federal detention facility awaiting sentencing.

She was thirty years old, but she looked forty. Her styled blonde hair had been cut into a plain, practical bob; her expensive designer clothes were gone, replaced by a faded canvas field jacket, dark denim work trousers, and scuffed leather boots. Her face was thin, pale, and etched with the deep, agonizing exhaustion of someone whose pride had been ground into dust.

She carried a single canvas duffel bag over her shoulder.

She walked the three miles up the winding gravel road, her breath coming in ragged gasps in the thin mountain air.

Through the trees, the rhythmic, clear ring of framing mallets and the laughing voices of young apprentices assembling a massive bridge truss echoed across the gorge.

Sierra reached the split-rail cedar fence marking the boundary of the guild.

Standing in the open framing bay of the workshop was Evelyn, wearing a canvas work apron, holding a wooden framing square, checking the alignment of an oak king-post truss.