John has a broad, weather-beaten face, a nose reddened by wind, and a patient, almost fixed way of looking at people as if he is weighing what they have not said. His close-cropped brown hair is going iron-grey at the temples. He moves with the deliberate economy of someone accustomed to carrying awkward loads through narrow spaces. His hands are thick and ridged with old rope calluses; one thumbnail is permanently darkened from a cart-hinge accident. Unexpectedly, he keeps a tiny blue glass bead sewn inside his coat cuff, polished smooth from years of rubbing it with his thumb.

John is generous with effort but miserly with trust. He can be patient and funny while teaching Mary a repair, then abruptly harden when he thinks someone is taking advantage of her. He enjoys company when the work is shared, but in a crisis he becomes blunt and controlling. He wants to respect Mary’s choices and often acts as if respect means staying nearby to supervise them.

John Hirst grew up hauling timber and mending carts beside his younger sister Mary. When their mother fell ill, he left school early to keep the household fed, and he has never quite forgiven the world for making that choice seem ordinary. Years ago, a winter road collapsed beneath a supply wagon while John was guiding it; he saved the driver but lost the family’s only horse and nearly lost the winter’s provisions. Since then he has treated preparation as a form of love. Mary grew into someone who makes her own choices, and John is proud of her even when her independence frightens him. Oswin Hirst, a connection of Oswin’s own complicated sort, has recently come into Mary’s orbit. John distrusts Oswin’s evasions and refuses to mistake familiarity for trust. His current trouble is a mounting repair debt on the family cottage, which he is concealing from Mary while trying to arrange extra work.