He had changed, and he looked at his hands, now dirty from repairing the byre. He would have never attempted to rethatch a roof, or shovel manure, or reset stone walls in his academic life. His hands were his livelihood as a harpist—as vain as it sounded, he couldn’t afford to break a nail—and yet he was pleased to know they had also made repairs on the byre. His hands could offer more to others than he had once thought or even wanted to give.
