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comfortably on his muscular frame: all this said “farmer” to her.
    â€œLet me show you around,” Clough said, taking no special notice of the boy. The sheepdog kept them bunched together as they stepped through the office door onto the mill floor, with its mingled smells of sawdust, machine oil, and ancient stone.
    Danutia gazed in wonder at the open beams and stationary mill wheel. “I feel like I’ve walked onto the set of one of those Masterpiece Theatre shows. Too bad the mill isn’t working.”
    â€œThe mill had shut down long before I bought the place,” Clough said. “Though there was one here for centuries. It ground corn—that’s grain to you North Americans—for human consumption. Mostly oats for oatcakes, a staple of the local diet before store-bought white bread became the rage. Down the road you can see the water wheel of the old meal mill, which produced food for animals instead of people. Before the steam engines took over, there were twenty water mills along the Wye. It’s the only river in this area with enough volume to turn a mill wheel the whole year round.”
    â€œI’ve heard stories about the Monsal Mill,” Danutia said.
    â€œA terrible place, that,” Clough said. “It was a cotton mill, and needed cheap labor and nimble fingers. You’ve probably heard about the children brought from the cities to work as apprentices, how they were overworked, badly fed, and physically abused. Good riddance when the original mill burned down. The mill you see now was built in the nineteenth century. It closed down about twenty years ago. Rumor is, it’s to be redeveloped into condos.”
    Eric darted glances about him, shuffling his feet.
    â€œNo need to worry, Eric me lad,” Kevin said. “You’ll not be mistreated like those poor orphans.”
    â€œNo indeed,” Clough said, smiling. “You won’t find dormitories full of starving children here, or brutal masters. At this time of year, it’s just you and me. And Boots.” He leaned down to pat the dog at his side. “The studios upstairs are rented out to various artisans—a stained glass maker, a potter, and a weaver, at the moment—but they’re taking some time off before they start making stock for the tourist season.”
    Clough gave them a tour of the machines used for cutting and planing, saying to Eric, “You’ll be running these in no time.” Solid and unhurried, he led them to the walled-off area at the far end. “This is the cabinet shop,” he said, sliding back the large wooden door. A space heater hummed in a corner, bringing out the smell of fresh varnish.
    In the middle of the room stood a triangular coffee table, a sanding block beside it.
    â€œThis is what I was working on when you came,” Clough said. “See the reddish undertone? Cherry. Lovely grain, isn’t it?” He picked up the sanding block and held it out to Eric. “Here, you carry on while I show these people out.”
    Eric stared at the sander. “I don’t know how.”
    â€œYou know more than you think you do, lad. Just make smooth, light strokes with the grain, like this.” He demonstrated briefly, then left the block on the table. Signaling Boots to stay, he nodded towards the door. Danutia and Kevin stepped outside, and Clough closed the door behind them.
    â€œHe’ll do fine,” Clough said as they walked back towards the office. “He’s just afraid of making a mistake. The one bright spot in his school record was his technology class, a fancy name for what we called ‘shop’ when I taught school. He’ll be a good test for what I have to offer.”
    Kevin shook Clough’s hand. “It’ll be hard for the lad to stay away from his old mates, being so close to Tideswell.”
    â€œJustine teaches music half-time in Buxton, and he’ll start school there