The schoolhouse, now complete, no longer smelled only of raw timber and sweat. It smelled of chalk dust, beeswax polish, and the faint, sweet scent of the wildflowers that sat in a jar on the deep windowsill. The morning sun streamed through the clean glass, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the air like tiny, excited spirits. The room held its breath, waiting for its purpose to begin.
The children filed in, their usual boisterous energy tempered by awe. This was not the open field or the shade of the great oak where lessons were usually held. This was a *place*. A thing made by the hands of their parents, their neighbors, themselves. They ran their fingers over the smooth benches Finnian had crafted, traced the intricate patterns in Brenna's woven rug, stared with wide eyes at the mysterious continents on the burl-wood globe.
