"And before that?" she asks, moving closer to examine a hydrometer floating in a test cylinder.
"Before that isn't relevant." I check the density of the batch, deliberately focusing on the task.
She nods, and steps back to lean against a worktable.
"Well, I'm grateful you're letting me wait out the storm here," she says. "I promise not to touch anything or get in your way."
"The storm's supposed to pass by morning," I say. "I can help you get your car out after the county plow comes through."
"Thank you." She rubs her hands together, still warming up. "I really didn't mean to intrude on your solitude up here."
The apology sounds genuine. I grunt in acknowledgment, uncomfortable with how easily she seems to read my preference for isolation.
"You can sit there if you want," I offer grudgingly, nodding toward a stool in the corner. "It's going to be about forty minutes before these batches are ready."
She takes the seat.
The syrup has reached that critical point where attention must be absolute—the moment when sugar concentration, temperature, and viscosity align perfectly. One minute too long and it crystallizes; too short and bacterial growth becomes a risk.
I'm so focused that I almost forget her presence until I sense her moving closer, watching as I test the density one final time.
"Perfect," I murmur, mostly to myself.
"What makes it perfect?" she asks quietly. "Besides the measurements, I mean."
I glance over, surprised by the question. "Experience," I answer after a moment. "The way it sheets off the spoon. The resistance when you stir. The sound it makes at a certain viscosity—like a whisper."
"May I?" she asks, gesturing toward the finished batch.
I hesitate, then reach for a testing spoon, dipping it into the amber liquid and handing it to her.
"Careful. It's hot."
She accepts it with steady hands, examining the color first, holding it up to the light filtering through snow-covered windows. Then she smells it, her expression shifts, eyes remaining closed as she processes.
“Extraordinary,” she says finally, opening her eyes. “It smells warm and layered, a hint of wood. And there’s this… almost butterscotch note in the air?”
Her assessment is accurate. Unsettlingly so. I catch myself wishing, briefly and pointlessly, that I could experience it the way she does.
"Like I said, it's from higher elevation trees. Different mineral composition in the soil." I take the spoon back, our fingers brushing momentarily. A small contact that shouldn't register but does.
"It's beautiful work," she says, and there's genuine respect in her voice that catches me off guard. "Thank you for letting me see it."
I nod, uncomfortable with the praise and with my reaction to it.
"Can I help?" she offers.
"No." The word comes out sharper than intended. “Don't touch anything."
She returns to her stool, seemingly unoffended by my rudeness. I feel her watching as I work, her gaze attentive but not intrusive as I work with practiced movements.
Outside, the storm intensifies. Inside, steam rises, droplets beading on the wooden beams overhead before falling back down—a closed system of evaporation and return.
And between these elements sits this unexpected woman with her perceptive eyes, disrupting twenty years of solitude with her presence.
Chapter 2 – Sage
The sugar shack is like stepping into another world—a hot, steamy universe where time moves at the pace of dripping sap.
