The Golden Oath
The grain was counted in sacks, forty-two in total, each one heavy with the damp chill of the cellar floor. Katharine Baxendale ran her thumb over the rough burlap, feeling the grit of chaff against her skin, and knew that by the winter solstice, these sacks would be the only thing left of her husband’s name. The manor, Baxendale Hall, stood empty and creaking, its windows boarded against the...
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