“Your tab’s already four hundred dollars deep,” Mark said.

Lily laughed, a short, bright sound that filled the little bedroom.

“Go wash up for supper,” I told her.

“Sarah’s making roast beef.”

By six that evening, the autumn sky over the detached workshop had gone a dark slate gray.

The air inside was cold, but the little kerosene heater by the tool rack threw off a steady ring of warmth.

I switched on the overhead shop lamp and tied my canvas work apron around my waist.