where tradition is measured not in tides but in the quiet authority of old estates and bourbon-dark libraries. Here in Lexington, the grey to nearly black veins threading through Black Limba's golden heartwood speak a language that bluegrass craftsmen understand instinctively—the marriage of refinement and wildness, of controlled elegance interrupted by something untamed. Rosebud supplies these sheets knowing that Lexington's millworkers prize the way the figuring deepens with age, darkening into the panels of study walls and mantelpieces as though the wood itself were absorbing the character of the rooms it inhabits. It is this slow maturation, this patient dialogue between sapwood's pale greyish whisper and heartwood's dramatic declaration, that follows the veneer northward now toward Lincoln,