The wine was doing its work on everyone.
Not on Jocelynn, who had taken only measured sips despite Sorcha's generous pouring, but on the room itself. The formal stiffness that had lingered after the courtyard was softening, dissolving in the warmth of the brazier and the easy rhythm of shared conversation. Sorcha's story had loosened something in all of them, and the talk turned naturally from love and loss to the practical matters that occupied the lives of frontier noblewomen.
"I imagine handling heavy stone is a challenge," Jocelynn said, turning her cup slowly on the table. "Especially when dropping or cracking a block can ruin something so valuable. Getting it from the quarry to the river must be slow work."
"Oh, it is," Sorcha agreed. "We've broken more carts than I care to count, and the roads through the hills aren't kind to heavy loads. But once the stone reaches the river, the Otkers and their carters take good care of it."
