The Town of Golden Stone

Polly finally dropped down into the old town, where the streets narrow until the white houses seem to lean their shoulders together overhead. Flying between them felt like threading a needle.

At the heart of it all stood the church, though at first glance she took it for a fortress. High blank walls, a massive tower, battlements running along the roofline: a building designed as much to keep raiders out as to let prayers in.

And it was built of golden stone. The very stone cut from the cave at the waterline had been hauled up here for the church, and up the hill for the windmills too. The whole puzzle clicked into place: the town had quite literally been carved out of its own coastline.

Down at the port a fisher sat beside his boat, mending nets with the quick, absent skill of someone whose hands know the work by heart. The morning catch flashed silver in the sun. Polly offered a cheerful greeting and carried on along the water.