SKYE'S POV
The autumn winds came early to the northern ridges this year, sliding down the jagged stone teeth of the peaks with a sharp, tooth-aching bite that carried the distinct scent of coming frost and high-altitude pine sap. But down here in the sheltered hollows of the valley, the air remained stubbornly warm and golden, resisting the chill with the stubbornness of a dying season. It smelled of rich, damp earth, woodsmoke curling from a dozen stone chimneys, and the heavy, sugary perfume of the second harvest drying slowly in the afternoon sun.
I stood on the smooth stone threshold of the newly constructed granary, my fingers resting lightly on the cool grain of the heavy oak double-doors. My fingernails were clean today, free of the black garden dirt that usually lived under them,
