"Because if I tell somebody what answer I want before they look, I'm paying for agreement instead of knowledge."
Eli pointed at Raymond. "Write that down."
Norah already had.
The specialist arrived in a state university station wagon with folders, sample boxes, and no apparent interest in the excitement that had spread through the Bell household. Dr. Helen Carver was in her forties and spoke precisely enough that Norah immediately trusted her caution. She examined boards from Log 11, the broken sample Raymond had cut earlier, photographs of the three marked trunks, and the old block from Eli's workshop.
She confirmed the species as baldcypress.
She could not confirm the exact harvest date from appearance alone.
"Tree-ring dating is possible under the right circumstances," she explained, "but it requires reference chronologies and usable ring sequences. It can also tell us when the tree grew, not necessarily when a particular log entered your channel unless we have complete outer rings and context."
Norah appreciated that every answer came with boundaries.
Dr. Carver measured ring density on the sample. The tree had grown slowly for much of its life. She noted that the diameter of the largest trunks implied very old trees by modern standards, but warned against converting diameter directly into age because growth rates varied dramatically by site.
"Could they be from the nineteenth century?" Norah asked.
"Yes."
"Are they?"
"I don't know yet."
Norah looked at Eli.
He looked pleased.
"Another one," she muttered.
Dr. Carver heard. "Another what?"
"Adult who likes saying 'I don't know.'"
"That's usually how you identify adults worth listening to."
Eli laughed.
The preservation condition interested Dr. Carver almost as much as the age. Cypress heartwood naturally resisted decay, and long burial in saturated, oxygen-poor sediment could preserve timber surprisingly well. Mineral compounds in the mud could darken outer layers and create color variation that specialty woodworkers valued.
"But," she added, "don't confuse rarity with universal quality. Submerged timber can contain hidden cracks, bacterial degradation, internal stress, embedded metal, or pockets of decay. Your good board tells me you have some good wood. It does not tell me all your wood is good."
"Raymond said the same thing," Norah replied.
"Then Raymond is useful."
"He'll be unbearable when I tell him."
Dr. Carver studied the mark photographs next.
She did not recognize Bellamy & Cross's exact mark. She suggested checking timber-brand registries, old scaling manuals, company letterheads, and shipping records if any survived. Clara Benton at the historical society became delighted when Norah brought that list.
"Now we're doing actual archival work," Clara said.
"What were we doing before?"
"Getting lucky."
Over the next two weeks, Norah's summer divided into two lives.
In one, she helped repair a farm damaged by floodwater.
In the other, she reconstructed a commercial landscape that had disappeared nearly a century earlier.
Clara found a tax ledger showing Bellamy & Cross owned equipment at Dawes Landing in 1890. A regional business circular advertised "choice cypress sticks and sawn stock." An 1892 creditor notice documented the partnership's financial trouble after the death of Caleb Bellamy. A shipping ledger preserved only in fragments listed deliveries to a mill farther south.
The mark remained elusive.
Then Norah found it in an unexpected place.
Clara had borrowed a bound photocopy of nineteenth-century timber inspection records from a university archive. Most pages were lists of marks registered by companies moving logs through regional landings. Some were simple letters. Others were geometric cuts designed to be recognized even after bark disappeared.
Norah turned page after page.
Cross.
Circle.
Three notches.
Diamond.
Half-moon.
Then she saw two intersecting strokes with a curved lower notch.
Her finger stopped.
Beside it was an abbreviation: B & C.
She whispered, "Clara."
Clara came around the table.