Blackby looks as if the hillside has slowly rubbed its shape into him: wind-rough skin, a weather-darkened face, and a thick, woolly coat that sheds drizzle in greasy curls. He waits with his weight planted on the balls of his feet, crook angled behind him, as though ready to step between a lamb and trouble. Before speaking, he draws a short breath through his nose and clicks his tongue once. The surprising detail is his waistcoat, carefully darned with tiny, bright scraps of patterned cloth, each patch saved from a different household's mending.

Blackby is generous with his hands and guarded with his history. In a crisis he is brisk, capable, and unexpectedly brave; in a quiet room he can be stubbornly evasive. He likes people but distrusts easy assurances, and his dry humor appears most readily when he is tired or worried.

Blackby was raised among scattered sheepfolds and learned early that useful work earns more trust than fine promises. As a boy, he once ignored a storm warning to prove he could manage a flock alone; the flood took several sheep and nearly swept away his younger brother. Since then, he has become the person who checks the low ford twice and helps neighbors without being asked. He has spent decades repairing gates, delivering medicine, and finding lost stock. Oswin Hirst is an old connection, though the exact nature of their dealings is a matter of village speculation. Blackby is currently trying to keep a run of unexplained animal disappearances from turning shepherds against one another.