To the Stone, the people are like the fog: they arrive with a chill, they cling to the cliffs for a brief, breathless moment, their lives flickering like lanterns in a gale, and then they vanish into the grey. But some leave a mark. Not a mark upon the stone itself-for the granite is too hard for that-but a mark in the blood. Some carry the salt in their veins so deeply that the Stone finally recognizes them as its own. It hears the rhythm of their hammers, the scrape of their boots, and the salt-cracked prayers of their mothers. This is the story of those people. This is the story of the Penneys of Savage Cove, a family whose lives were written in the spray of the sea and the soot of the hearth.