The Distant Journey
The notice was pasted to the oak of the gate, the ink still wet and smelling of iron. It stated, in the dry, legal hand of the bailiff, that the lease on the mill was forfeit as of the first of October, the rent having doubled to a sum that made the air in the courtyard feel suddenly thin and cold. Madeleine Renard stood before it, her satchel heavy against her hip, the leather strap cutting a...
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