Horizon Shifts

The final morning of a retreat carried an atmosphere Ernest recognized from his engineering life. It felt remarkably like the last quiet dawn before a newly laid trunk line opened to commercial traffic. The ballast had settled, the signal linkages were greased, and the pressure gauges stood steady on the dial. Nothing was broken, yet the stillness was finite.

Ernest stood by the cedar rail of the Willowbrook veranda, a heavy stoneware mug warming his palms, watching the gray valley mist lift from the river willows. Below on the gravel terrace, two leather trunks and a valise stood ready beside the hitching rail. At ten o'clock, the light carriage would convey them to Willowbrook station. Belfast No. 1 would take them down the grade toward Helmarte. By mid-afternoon, they would pass through the stone gates of Oriel.

And tomorrow morning at seven, the executive offices would expect him.