* The iron key settles against the whitewashed stone with a dull, familiar clink, hanging precisely where it always has. Cormac turns, the soft light of the kitchen catching the edge of his jaw as he extends his hand toward Patrixia. "The mist hasn't lifted from the hollow yet," he says, his voice a quiet counterpoint to the crackle of the dying hearth.iThe path down to the water will be slick. Come." Patrixia looks at his open palm, noting the calluses earned from seasons of turning the heavy timber wheels, before sliding her fingers into his. His grip is steady and warm against the autumn chill creeping under the doorframe. Together, they step out of the warmth of the kitchen and into the sharp, damp morning air. The grass is heavy with dew, silvering the trail that winds down toward the river. Below them, the steady, rhythmic thrum of the mill acts as a pulse for the valley, waiting for the entries they are about to make in the heavy leather-bound book. Would you like to focus on the conversation during their walk down the path, or should we skip directly to what they discover inside the mill book?

* The iron key settles against the whitewashed stone with a dull, familiar clink, hanging precisely where it always has. Cormac turns, the soft light of the ki…

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