The first full week of the year began with rain.
Not the freezing kind that turned roads into hazards or snapped branches under weight, but a steady, soaking rain that worked its way into wool and earth alike. Phillip noticed it before he stepped outside, listening to the sound against the roof as he buttoned his coat. It was persistent without being violent, the kind that changed plans quietly rather than breaking them.
He took that as a fair description of the days ahead.
Henry was already awake, seated at the table with papers spread out this time, though they were arranged neatly rather than piled. A kettle hissed softly on the stove.
"Morning," Henry said.
Phillip nodded. "How bad?"
Henry glanced toward the window. "Roads will be mud by noon. Lines should hold. Resin's still fresh on the western spans."
Phillip poured tea. "And people?"
Henry smiled slightly. "People will complain."
"Then nothing has changed," Phillip said.
