Page 66 of Caroline’s Compass

“I knew the road was rutted.”

“The compass is an instrument, not an infant.”

She looked at him.

“Poorly timed,” he admitted.

The company moved ahead to a wide patch of grass. Caroline walked the distance, carrying the compass as though any further movement might destroy it. In camp, she spread a towel over an overturned crate and placed the damaged instrument in the center.

Thomas set his tools beside it. “The case can be straightened.”

“The glass?”

“I cannot replace it here.”

The crack caught the afternoon light, bright and undeniable.

“Father kept it for twenty years,” Caroline said. “I kept it twelve days.”

“He probably dropped it.”

“Not like this.”

“You cannot know that.”

“Look at the case.”

“I am. It has dents older than Lucy.”

Caroline pressed her lips together. The damage should not have felt like grief. It was brass, glass, and a needle. Yet Father's hands had worn the lid smooth, and now a careless moment had broken the one object that seemed to carry his certainty.

“I failed to protect it,” she said.

Thomas did not contradict her immediately. He sat across the crate and waited until she met his eyes.

“May I touch it?”

The question mattered. He had repaired tools without ceremony all month, but he understood this was not merely a tool to her.

Caroline nodded.

He lifted the compass carefully. Using a narrow blade, he eased the rim away from the glass one fraction at a time. Caroline held a folded cloth beneath his hands so no splinter could be lost.

“The glass will remain cracked,” he said. “I can straighten the case enough for the needle to swing. I will preserve every piece.”

“It will never be the same.”

“No.”

Thomas's refusal to offer false comfort loosened something in her chest.

He worked that evening while camp life continued around them. Martha brought coffee and left without asking questions. Grace steered Lucy away twice. Rebecca placed the lead-wagon reins beside Caroline and said, “It was a bad rut,” before returning to the teams.

Thomas used the smallest pliers to lift the bent rim. “Tell me what this damage means.”

“You can see what it means.”

“I can see cracked glass.”