Sawdust and Stained Glass
The midday sun cast clean lines across the cottage’s pale stone walls, shadow pooling in the hollow joints of half-laid brick.
Nic adjusted his stance, sweat dampening the back of his shirt, but he barely noticed.
His world narrowed to the angle of his wrist, the weight of the trowel, the satisfying resistance of fresh mortar.
There was something sacred in the rhythm—scoop, press, smooth—a kind of music that quieted everything else.
Out here, with lime dust in his lungs and earth beneath his boots, he didn’t have to be clever or loud or liked. He just had to build.
Each brick was a decision. A promise. The arch would hold or it wouldn’t—and if it held, it would be because his hands made it so.
There was honesty in that. Control. And on good days like this, when the shape came clean and the line held true, it felt almost like magic.
He didn’t need to think about it anymore.
That part, at least, he could do with his eyes closed.
“Too narrow,” he muttered, mostly to himself. He straightened, flicking his wrist toward the edge of the frame. “Pull the line a quarter inch left or the hearth’s going to lean like a drunk.”
A few feet off, Brandon gave him a nod and reached to adjust the guide string. But behind him, Martin, one of his father’s oldest crewmen, let out a low snort and didn’t budge from where he lounged near the timber stack, wiping his hands slow like he had all day.
“Careful now,” said Martin, voice just loud enough to carry. “Wouldn’t want junior here overworking himself into an early grave.”
A ripple of amusement passed between the crew. Nic didn’t glance up.
“Appreciate the concern,” he called back, trowel still moving. “But I plan to die surrounded by admirers and luxury furniture, not crushed by someone else’s laziness.”
Brandon chuckled under his breath. Martin didn’t.
“Books and sketches won’t teach you what your hands don’t know yet,” Martin added after a moment, quieter now, almost casual. “Some of us build with experience, not ink.”
Nic wiped the edge of the brick clean, careful and exact. He felt the heat crawl higher on the back of his neck. It wasn’t from the sun.
He didn’t respond right away. Just placed the next brick, pressed it down slow, and stood up, stretching out his shoulders with deliberate ease. When he turned, he gave Martin a smile too wide to be sincere.
“You’re absolutely right,” he said. “That’s why I listen to the ones who show up sober and don’t cut corners.”
A few laughs rippled through the men. Even Brandon bit his knuckle. Martin narrowed his eyes and looked away.
Nic turned back to the arch, jaw tight. His smile vanished the second no one could see it.
God, he hated this hill. Hated the view, the tidy little fences, the pruned hedges, the way the sun caught on everything like it had already been polished for someone else. This wasn’t building. This was putting up walls for people who never touched the floors they walked on.
He shoved the next brick harder than he meant to. Mortar bled at the seam.
Damn—watch it. They’re already looking for cracks.
The clang of a lunch bell echoed from the delivery wagon, followed by the familiar scrape of boots and shifting crates as the crew drifted toward the shade. Brandon tossed his gloves onto a beam and wiped his brow. “You coming?” he asked.
“In a minute,” Nic said, not looking up.
He stayed at the hearth, adjusting the corner where two lines met.
A hair off now would haunt the whole build later.
The mortar had started to tack, and he wanted the seam right.
Around him, the air grew quieter, filled with the hum of bees and the distant murmur of men unwrapping bread and bottles.
The smell of smoked meat drifted over, but he ignored it.
A few minutes later, footsteps approached—heavier than the others, more deliberate. Nic knew them without looking.
“You trying to shame the rest of us, or just make me nervous about my materials bill?” came his father’s voice.
Nic smirked and rose slowly, dusting his hands on his trousers. “Thought I’d get ahead on the arch. It’s almost right.”
Isaac didn’t answer right away. He stepped beside the fireplace and ran his fingers along the joint Nic had just finished.
The gesture was quiet, but not casual—his father’s way of checking work had always been more like a conversation with the stone.
After a moment, he gave a soft grunt of approval.
“You’ve got the curve balanced,” Isaac said. “Your grandfather would’ve liked it.”
Nic kept his eyes on the trowel in his hand, turning it once before slipping it into the water bucket. “Careful, Da,” he said lightly. “Say things like that and I’ll start thinking you’re proud of me.”
Isaac snorted. “I’m not shouting it from the rooftops.”
“Good. Mortar’s messy enough without a scene.”
Isaac gave a small chuckle and clapped a hand on Nic’s shoulder. “Come eat before you drop. You’re not building a kingdom today.”
Reluctantly, Nic followed him toward the tree line, where crates and canvas sacks had become a makeshift table. The crew sat scattered—legs outstretched, backs against timber piles, food already in hand. Conversation rolled in low waves, punctuated by laughter and the pop of a cork.
Nic sank down beside Brandon, accepting half a sausage with a lazy thanks.
He joined the banter easily, tossing out a dig about Brandon’s cracked boots and another about how the chimney wouldn’t breathe properly with Martin’s head stuck in it.
A few chuckles rolled back at him. He grinned and took a long drink from his canteen.
But the tone shifted when Isaac sat nearby. The crew straightened without meaning to, spines a little stiffer, laughs a little sharper around the edges. Even the younger ones, like Brandon, grew more cautious with their words.
“Hope someone brought something sweet,” Nic said, biting into a ball of cheese. “I’m wasting away over here.”
Brandon tossed him a bruised apple. “You’re all ribs and ego.”
“Ribs are structure. Ego’s just trim.” Nic caught the apple and grinned. “Good architecture needs both.”
A few chuckles. Someone muttered something about him talking like a steward again.
He gestured vaguely toward the half-finished hearth. “Say what you want, but she’s going to be a beauty. Curves like that? That’s Poetry in stone.”
“Poetry,” piped up Rene, peeling an egg. “Boy talks to bricks and thinks they whisper back.”
“Only the smart ones,” Nic said. “You lot would be stone silent.”
That got a real laugh. Even Isaac smiled faintly, tearing a strip of dried meat with his teeth.
Martin, who’d spent most of lunch chewing in slow silence, finally spoke up. His voice was smooth, but a sour scent lived under the words.
“Figure it’s easy for some,” he said, rolling a pick between his fingers. “Workin’ for your old da has its perks.”
Nic didn’t flinch. Not visibly. He took a measured bite of his apple, looked out at the treeline like the comment hadn’t landed.
“Perks?” he said. “Sure. Nothing like getting yelled at twice as much for doing the same damn job.”
Martin smiled without warmth. “Oh, I don’t know. Seems to me you get to make a lot of calls for someone who hasn’t put in the years.”
Nic tilted his head. “Guess I should’ve come out of the womb holding a hammer—might’ve earned your respect by now.”
Martin shrugged. “I’m just saying. There’s a difference between building something and thinking you know how it should all go together.”
Nic’s grin went lopsided, sharp as the chisel in his belt. “And there’s a difference between experience and just being around a long time.”
That landed harder. The laughter stilled. Brandon glanced between them, biting back a whistle.
Martin’s jaw moved like he wanted to speak again, but Isaac cut in before he could. Not with a reprimand, just a low, almost careless line.
“Mortar’s drying. We’ll talk more with hands than mouths this afternoon.”
Nic grinned into the distance, but his chest stayed tight. The tension clung to his ribs like dust that wouldn’t brush off.
Nic slipped away before the crew packed up, claiming he had to check the measurements for tomorrow’s lumber delivery.
He ducked behind a row of hedges, tugged off his overshirt and shook out the dust, fingers raking through his hair.
He scuffed his boots on the grass, wiped sweat from his neck with the cleaner side of his sleeve, and muttered a quiet curse.
He still smelled like pine shavings and sweat, his skin and hair covered in lime dust. Why hadn’t he thought to bring a change of clothes?
The path through the White Villa’s garden wrapped through marble planters and bronze statues of forgotten heroes. Nic stayed to the side, where the stone turned to gravel. His boots crunched with every step—a reminder he couldn’t scrub off.
He leaned against a sun-warmed column just outside the dance hall, heart drumming too fast. The stained glass above the door flickered with late afternoon light.
From inside came the faint rhythm of string music and soft feet—her feet, maybe.
Helen always moved like she was half-spun from mist and moonlight, even when she was tired or cross.
It was just the way she looked when she danced. The way her collar slipped just slightly, the skin at her throat soft and flushed. Just that. But that didn’t explain why he’d ditched the crew early or why his palms were sweating now.
He hated waiting like this. Hated the way it made him feel—hopeful, twitchy, like he’d left some part of himself exposed. Like a stray looking for scraps.
Voices rang out suddenly from down the path—low and smooth, men’s laughter chasing the end of some joke. Nic straightened, pulling his overshirt back on.