Fenella McLeod pressed her thumb into the warm beeswax, watching it yield under the pressure. Her granddaughter Maisie was coming tomorrow, and this time she would teach her everything. The ancient chandlemaking secrets had lived in their family for two hundred years, passed from grandmother to granddaughter in an unbroken chain. Now it was Fenella's turn to share them. She rolled the wax between her palms, feeling its weight and warmth. Maisie was finally old enough to understand. Tomorrow, the lessons would begin. She walked to the window of her workshop and looked out at the snow-dusted landscape. The stone walls held the heat from the hearth, keeping the space warm enough for working wax. The thatched roof had lasted through three winters now. This was where she would teach Maisie. This was where the girl would learn to shape light from darkness, just as Fenella had learned from her own grandmother. Fenella turned back to her workbench and reached for the clay pot painted with a single bee. Inside lay chunks of golden beeswax she had gathered last autumn. She lifted a piece and breathed in its honey scent. Each candle began here, with wax from the hives. Maisie needed to understand that. The girl had to learn where everything came from before she could make anything worth keeping. She set down the wax and smiled. Tomorrow she would show Maisie the proper way to heat the pot, how to test the wax with her fingers, when to add the wick. After that, they would take their finished candles to the market on the wooden display table she kept for selling. The townspeople would buy them, and Maisie would see how their craft mattered. The chain would not break. Not on her watch.

Maisie arrived at dawn, her cheeks pink from the cold walk. Fenella opened the workshop door and gestured her inside. The girl's eyes went wide at the rows of finished candles lining the shelves. Fenella led her to the workbench and pointed at the clay pot with the painted bee. "This is where it starts," she said. "Everything begins with the wax." She lifted the pot and carried it outside. Maisie followed, her breath forming white clouds in the morning air. Fenella walked to the stone barrel near the wall and lifted its wooden lid. Inside sat chunks of rendered animal fat, cool and ready. "Beeswax alone costs too much for everyday candles," Fenella said. "We mix it with tallow to make it last." She scooped out a handful and showed Maisie how the fat felt different from the wax, harder and waxy but without the honey smell. Back inside, Fenella hung an old lantern near the workbench. The metalwork caught the morning light. "When winter comes early, we need this to see our work," she said. Maisie touched the lantern's handle and smiled. Fenella moved to a shelf and pulled down a weathered wooden box she hadn't opened in years. Dust covered the lid. She set it on the bench and opened it carefully. Inside lay yellowed papers covered in her grandmother's handwriting. Recipes for different candles. Notes about which wicks burned longest. A letter addressed to the next chandlemaker in the family. Fenella picked up the letter and handed it to Maisie. "Read this tonight," she said. "Tomorrow we'll try the recipes together." The girl held the paper like it was made of glass. Fenella touched her shoulder and felt the weight of all the grandmothers who had stood in this same spot, teaching the same lessons. The chain held strong.