The back wall, facing north, he built of thick logs carefully scribed to match the irregular contour of the stone. He worked slow, shaving and fitting, shaving and fitting, until the wood hugged the granite like it belonged there.
Brisco Kane came to see the work, drawn by the same instinct that made master builders unable to ignore a mistake.
He stood inside the narrow corridor, boots on dirt, arms crossed, and let his eyes measure everything the way a knife measures flesh.
“You’re wasting good wood,” Brisco said. “And for what? You’ve got rock already. Granite. Cold as a grave.”
Soren wiped sweat from his brow, leaving a streak of sawdust on his skin. “Stone is only cold,” he said, “when you keep it hungry.”
Brisco snorted. “Hungry.”
Soren nodded toward the granite face. “A sink can also be a source.”
“That’s poetry.” Brisco’s gaze sharpened. “Winter doesn’t care about poetry.”
Soren picked up his adze again. “Winter cares about physics.”
Brisco didn’t like the calm in his voice. It made disagreement feel childish. “That much stone inside is a mistake,” Brisco insisted. “No give. No warmth. It’ll leech you dry.”
