The Wistful Grid
14 November, 1342 I have counted the sacks of rye again. There are forty-two. I have weighed them against the standard stone, and the total is sufficient for the winter, provided the mill does not fail. The mill has not failed. But the grain is wrong. It is grey at the heart, a dull, ashen color that stains the fingers black. I have seen this before, in the lower fields, where the soil is too...
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