peddler treeMy next book is The Peddler of Wisdom, an adventure set in Provence. I’ve got a draft of it sitting on a kitchen shelf, and Elliot and I have begun talking in earnest about going to Provence next summer. To get to all the places mentioned in the narrative, though — Villefranche, Marseilles, Aix en Provence, the Valley of Merveilles  — and the costume museum of Lyon, not to mention the churches in the area, markets, and festivals, I’ll have to put down some serious money. Toward this effort I’ve applied for a grant and will be hoping folks — perhaps even YOU, dear reader —  would like to fund me. I need to collect $2000 for flight, ground transportation, food/accommodation, museum admission and photocopying of archival materials. If I can get any interest out there, I’ll put up a FundMe button. Now I’ve just got to get up the nerve to do it.

Maybe I’ll sweeten the deal. Here, below, is a sample chapter from the first draft of The Peddler of Wisdom. It’ll give an idea of what prospective investors are funding, if they indeed consider doing so. Enjoy! Ask questions. Give advice!

Thanks so much!!

Irene received her healer’s license at thirteen.

She was apprenticed at a practice in the valley at eleven. There were few choices of profession for a peasant woman but with her family being poor an income was essential. Between milkmaid, brewster, and healer, she chose the latter. She’d be a farmer’s wife. No Provençale was free from cultivating fields, unless they drove the sheep. But women weren’t welcome in that brotherhood.

There was also a special book that helped her choose her field. Her father’s Book of Mage had been a companion since Irene was two. On each delicious page was advice on finding herbs, telling fortunes and speaking with the stars. The accounts took place in a place called Persia. The book was originally given to her father from a Crusader’s page, and it was Irene’s first book of medicine. It was also her most valued treasure and she kept it in her cedar chest underneath the bed.

Irene made the trip to her first mistress on a donkey. She was guided by a goatherd and a pony carrying olive oil. The journey took two days. The animals were slow, the way was steep, and the path had nearly washed away from rainfall. The only bridge between St. Dalmas and the world below perched above the Valley of Merveilles. Below it were giant petroglyphs carved by some ancient race of men. One was of a powerful shaman. It scared Irene every time she saw it. Though he was the simplest stick figure, his hands tore lightening from the sky. Walking above him on that narrow bridge made even the stoutest traveler nervous.

Alongside the Shaman were other carvings, a snake-mounted warrior, a horse with raven claws, a mountain lion devouring a fawn. The glyphs were right below the pass at the intersection of Provence’s high and lowlands. Folks said the drawings had been placed to keep the mountain people on their perch and the valley dwellers down below. Whatever their intention, Irene crossed herself three times when she passed over them.

Her apprenticeship was in the town of Villefranche on the sea. Her mistress was Genève Bellevoix, but no one called her anything but La Sage. She was unmarried, which seemed unusual to Irene, and from the north. Somewhere near the capital. Her speech was almost indecipherable and Irene blundered for a time in understanding her.

“Stop boiling that mixture, girl! Nom de Dieu. ‘Twill kill a man twice over!”

Irene was preparing a cream for eye infection. She had been put in charge of herbs and mixing compounds and distilling essential oils.

“That much sulfur makes a person mad, or bald. Mark each jar ‘rectly and attend t’whit I say. All depends on lis’nig in this practice. All.”

La Sage was a dedicated listener. She wrote with terrifying skill, taking notes and scribbling cures before the patient had finished listing his complaints. She was experienced in chemistry, botany, astrology, physics, and mathematics and grew more fruit trees than Irene’s father, who’d won prizes at the spring fair. La Sage knew when a patient was inventing symptoms, hiding from work or getting out of mass. She never scolded, though, not the frauds or the cowards and certainly not the chronically ill. She didn’t berate relatives for treating their sick with honey and Cognac. And no home was too far for a visit, even when it meant dragging her mule over rocky creek beds in the middle of the night.

“Until God takes my gift,” She’d say, “I’ll serve.”

The mistress was so committed to her work she often took no payment. She never refused a patient, either. Not a drunk or a heretic or a leper. The one and only time La Sage turned down a call was when a Venetian knocked. La Sage would not treat that man, a trader, and a rich one by all accounts, and she wouldn’t say why. She simply moved on to the next patient on her list.

Irene found a pair of shackles in the cellar of her teacher’s cottage once. She uncovered the leg irons in a box of gardening tools. They were cruel looking things – thick iron manacles you’d hesitate to put on a wolf. Could La Sage have been a slave? Though Irene had never been, the city of Marseilles docked slave ships. Their captains were rumored to cast their nets at drunkards in the streets at night. Irene had not believed those tales, and yet Villefranche, a port just 75 miles from Marseilles, turned up some sordid visitors. Discolored men with whip-torn bodies contorted from shipboard travel. Irene could picture them ransoming toddlers for a piece of silver. The world these days made monsters out of monks. Irene put the shackles back where she had found them and began to watch her back when she walked in town.

“A healer’s best advice,” La Sage said at their next appointment, “Is to make the patient pull himself together.” She and Irene sat at the bedside of a tailor. He’d turned orange over night and was convinced a rival mender had poisoned him. “People have within them the best means to recover. They simply have to find the will to use it. N’est ce pas, Monsieur Sanglier?”

The poor man moaned and grabbed his stomach. He’d been retching most of the night.

“How do we do that?”

Irene offered the man a sip of water. He’d eaten nothing in two days and shook with nausea.

“That’s where the salves and medicines come in.”

La Sage gestured for Irene to follow her to the kitchen. “What we administer is confidence.”

“So the medicines don’t cure?”

“Some do. But many do better with a spoon of honey or aperitif. There are many who beg for medicine like holy water, and find a cure there. All depends on where they place their trust. If you convince a man that you can heal him, he’ll improve with a drop of goat’s milk off your finger.”

“Isn’t that . . . cheating?”

“Why?”
“Making patients think we have a miracle in goat’s milk?”

“Most of what we brew is made of milk or roots or wildflower.”
“But they’re tested recipes. Formulas you got from a . . .”
“A real doctor?”

“Well, a physic. Or a . . . magician.”

La Sage spat on the ground. “You’ve been reading fairy tales. Magicians are wastrel charlatans. Pantomimers setting fires alight. There’s no healing in it. Magic is illusion. I guarantee neither magicians nor physics ever birthed a child or calmed a fever. They’re corrupt men drunk from their own vapors.”

Irene considered this. She’d always wished to meet a physic. Her Book of Mage put great value in the astrologer-magician and in the wisdom he pulled from the heavens. Irene had read those verses a thousand times. They were the reason she was studying medicine.

“Cannot a healer and a magician both heal the sick?”

“I doubt a magician would have the time. They work for the amusement of the rich, their only toil is to keep their post. Their patrons have no interest in curing illness. They hunt for gold and conjure tricks in vials. Yes, the Arabs you’ve heard about have fine doctors, but they don’t give their healing to the poor. Nor do they allow a woman in their field. If we were in this enterprise among their nations, we would be flogged.” She shuddered. “Provence has its enemies. There are eyes on this region from Italy. If a Duke from Turin or Mantua takes these mountains the trade will close its doors to us. Beware, Irene, and hold your tongue on the issue of magicians. No good will come from it, I promise.”
After two years in Villefranche, Irene came home. She was fourteen. During her apprenticeship her father had been rendered invalid, her mother ran the farm and watched the goats. Irene’s first suitor had already made the rounds and asked to take her on a turn about the hillside. He was a cobbler’s son. Not the stuff of poetry, but not the hogman, either.

His name was Karl. He was from an Austrian family who’d immigrated after a flood. Though most of his family made clogs, Karl cut trees. Someone had to supply the wood and Karl had the shoulders for the job.

They were married a year later. And a year after that, he died.

Karl left Irene with a six-month son who she supported with her healing and what her family earned from the orchard. A savage flu came soon after and at sixteen, Irene became the most sought after woman in the village.

Her mother died first, and then her father. Then the weaver, the miller and his family, Karl’s parents, the farrier and all his near neighbors. There’d been a sickness once before like this, and it had had no cure. St. Dalmas quarantined its sick and culled them in the empty miller’s house. A handful of monks supplied them with bread and the village did their best to alert nearby communities by way of cliff-top beacons. One light meant no more dead. Two meant send more food. The extinguishing of all lights would mean their quarantine was finished.

Irene did little more than comfort the dying. La Sage explained to her that folks should know when they were at life’s end.

Sixteen years later, the plague arrived. Like the flu, it spread through contact. Irene was ready when it struck. She wore thick wool gloves and boiled them between her house calls. She wore a leather apron from the blacksmith and scrubbed it with lye each night. Like that and in a muslin facemask, she remained uninfected. As did Florin, who she schooled in vigorous washing as La Sage had taught her.

St. Dalmas’ plague toll stopped at 340 deaths. After that number there were no new cases. Villagers spent four days burying their dead, burning sick beds and scrubbing the village cobblestones. The beacons came down from the mountain and Count de Beaux replaced the highest of them with a copper lamb minted from coins the villagers pulled out of the fountain.

Three months later, Duke Domenico stormed the village. In their exhaustion from the plague, there wasn’t a hand to stop him.

 

 

Irene received her healer’s license at thirteen.
She was apprenticed at a practice in the valley at eleven. There were few choices of profession for a peasant woman but with her family being poor an income was essential. Between milkmaid, brewster, and healer, she chose the latter. She’d be a farmer’s wife. No Provençale was free from cultivating fields, unless they drove the sheep. But women weren’t welcome in that brotherhood.
There was also a special book that helped her choose her field. Her father’s Book of Mage had been a companion since Irene was two. On each delicious page was advice on finding herbs, telling fortunes and speaking with the stars. The accounts took place in a place called Persia. The book was originally given to her father from a Crusader’s page, and it was Irene’s first book of medicine. It was also her most valued treasure and she kept it in her cedar chest underneath the bed.
Irene made the trip to her first mistress on a donkey. She was guided by a goatherd and a pony carrying olive oil. The journey took two days. The animals were slow, the way was steep, and the path had nearly washed away from rainfall. The only bridge between St. Dalmas and the world below perched above the Valley of Merveilles. Below it were giant petroglyphs carved by some ancient race of men. One was of a powerful shaman. It scared Irene every time she saw it. Though he was the simplest stick figure, his hands tore lightening from the sky. Walking above him on that narrow bridge made even the stoutest traveler nervous.
Alongside the Shaman were other carvings, a snake-mounted warrior, a horse with raven claws, a mountain lion devouring a fawn. The glyphs were right below the pass at the intersection of Provence’s high and lowlands. Folks said the drawings had been placed to keep the mountain people on their perch and the valley dwellers down below. Whatever their intention, Irene crossed herself three times when she passed over them.
Her apprenticeship was in the town of Villefranche on the sea. Her mistress was Genève Bellevoix, but no one called her anything but La Sage. She was unmarried, which seemed unusual to Irene, and from the north. Somewhere near the capital. Her speech was almost indecipherable and Irene blundered for a time in understanding her.
“Stop boiling that mixture, girl! Nom de Dieu. ‘Twill kill a man twice over!”
Irene was preparing a cream for eye infection. She had been put in charge of herbs and mixing compounds and distilling essential oils.
“That much sulfur makes a person mad, or bald. Mark each jar ‘rectly and attend t’whit I say. All depends on lis’nig in this practice. All.”
La Sage was a dedicated listener. She wrote with terrifying skill, taking notes and scribbling cures before the patient had finished listing his complaints. She was experienced in chemistry, botany, astrology, physics, and mathematics and grew more fruit trees than Irene’s father, who’d won prizes at the spring fair. La Sage knew when a patient was inventing symptoms, hiding from work or getting out of mass. She never scolded, though, not the frauds or the cowards and certainly not the chronically ill. She didn’t berate relatives for treating their sick with honey and Cognac. And no home was too far for a visit, even when it meant dragging her mule over rocky creek beds in the middle of the night.
“Until God takes my gift,” She’d say, “I’ll serve.”
The mistress was so committed to her work she often took no payment. She never refused a patient, either. Not a drunk or a heretic or a leper. The one and only time La Sage turned down a call was when a Venetian knocked. La Sage would not treat that man, a trader, and a rich one by all accounts, and she wouldn’t say why. She simply moved on to the next patient on her list.
Irene found a pair of shackles in the cellar of her teacher’s cottage once. She uncovered the leg irons in a box of gardening tools. They were cruel looking things – thick iron manacles you’d hesitate to put on a wolf. Could La Sage have been a slave? Though Irene had never been, the city of Marseilles docked slave ships. Their captains were rumored to cast their nets at drunkards in the streets at night. Irene had not believed those tales, and yet Villefranche, a port just 75 miles from Marseilles, turned up some sordid visitors. Discolored men with whip-torn bodies contorted from shipboard travel. Irene could picture them ransoming toddlers for a piece of silver. The world these days made monsters out of monks. Irene put the shackles back where she had found them and began to watch her back when she walked in town.
“A healer’s best advice,” La Sage said at their next appointment, “Is to make the patient pull himself together.” She and Irene sat at the bedside of a tailor. He’d turned orange over night and was convinced a rival mender had poisoned him. “People have within them the best means to recover. They simply have to find the will to use it. N’est ce pas, Monsieur Sanglier?”
The poor man moaned and grabbed his stomach. He’d been retching most of the night.
“How do we do that?”
Irene offered the man a sip of water. He’d eaten nothing in two days and shook with nausea.
“That’s where the salves and medicines come in.”
La Sage gestured for Irene to follow her to the kitchen. “What we administer is confidence.”
“So the medicines don’t cure?”
“Some do. But many do better with a spoon of honey or aperitif. There are many who beg for medicine like holy water, and find a cure there. All depends on where they place their trust. If you convince a man that you can heal him, he’ll improve with a drop of goat’s milk off your finger.”
“Isn’t that . . . cheating?”
“Why?”
“Making patients think we have a miracle in goat’s milk?”
“Most of what we brew is made of milk or roots or wildflower.”
“But they’re tested recipes. Formulas you got from a . . .”
“A real doctor?”
“Well, a physic. Or a . . . magician.”
La Sage spat on the ground. “You’ve been reading fairy tales. Magicians are wastrel charlatans. Pantomimers setting fires alight. There’s no healing in it. Magic is illusion. I guarantee neither magicians nor physics ever birthed a child or calmed a fever. They’re corrupt men drunk from their own vapors.”
Irene considered this. She’d always wished to meet a physic. Her Book of Mage put great value in the astrologer-magician and in the wisdom he pulled from the heavens. Irene had read those verses a thousand times. They were the reason she was studying medicine.
“Cannot a healer and a magician both heal the sick?”
“I doubt a magician would have the time. They work for the amusement of the rich, their only toil is to keep their post. Their patrons have no interest in curing illness. They hunt for gold and conjure tricks in vials. Yes, the Arabs you’ve heard about have fine doctors, but they don’t give their healing to the poor. Nor do they allow a woman in their field. If we were in this enterprise among their nations, we would be flogged.” She shuddered. “Provence has its enemies. There are eyes on this region from Italy. If a Duke from Turin or Mantua takes these mountains the trade will close its doors to us. Beware, Irene, and hold your tongue on the issue of magicians. No good will come from it, I promise.”

After two years in Villefranche, Irene came home. She was fourteen. During her apprenticeship her father had been rendered invalid, her mother ran the farm and watched the goats. Irene’s first suitor had already made the rounds and asked to take her on a turn about the hillside. He was a cobbler’s son. Not the stuff of poetry, but not the hogman, either.
His name was Karl. He was from an Austrian family who’d immigrated after a flood. Though most of his family made clogs, Karl cut trees. Someone had to supply the wood and Karl had the shoulders for the job.
They were married a year later. And a year after that, he died.
Karl left Irene with a six-month son who she supported with her healing and what her family earned from the orchard. A savage flu came soon after and at sixteen, Irene became the most sought after woman in the village.
Her mother died first, and then her father. Then the weaver, the miller and his family, Karl’s parents, the farrier and all his near neighbors. There’d been a sickness once before like this, and it had had no cure. St. Dalmas quarantined its sick and culled them in the empty miller’s house. A handful of monks supplied them with bread and the village did their best to alert nearby communities by way of cliff-top beacons. One light meant no more dead. Two meant send more food. The extinguishing of all lights would mean their quarantine was finished.
Irene did little more than comfort the dying. La Sage explained to her that folks should know when they were at life’s end.
Sixteen years later, the plague arrived. Like the flu, it spread through contact. Irene was ready when it struck. She wore thick wool gloves and boiled them between her house calls. She wore a leather apron from the blacksmith and scrubbed it with lye each night. Like that and in a muslin facemask, she remained uninfected. As did Florin, who she schooled in vigorous washing as La Sage had taught her.
St. Dalmas’ plague toll stopped at 340 deaths. After that number there were no new cases. Villagers spent four days burying their dead, burning sick beds and scrubbing the village cobblestones. The beacons came down from the mountain and Count de Beaux replaced the highest of them with a copper lamb minted from coins the villagers pulled out of the fountain.
Three months later, Duke Domenico stormed the village. In their exhaustion from the plague, there wasn’t a hand to stop him.

____

 

Sample chapter — The Peddler of Wisdom

 

Irene received her healer’s license at thirteen.

She was apprenticed at a practice in the valley at eleven. There were few choices of profession for a peasant woman but with her family being poor an income was essential. Between milkmaid, brewster, and healer, she chose the latter. She’d be a farmer’s wife. No Provençale was free from cultivating fields, unless they drove the sheep. But women weren’t welcome in that brotherhood.

There was also a special book that helped her choose her field. Her father’s Book of Mage had been a companion since Irene was two. On each delicious page was advice on finding herbs, telling fortunes and speaking with the stars. The accounts took place in a place called Persia. The book was originally given to her father from a Crusader’s page, and it was Irene’s first book of medicine. It was also her most valued treasure and she kept it in her cedar chest underneath the bed.

Irene made the trip to her first mistress on a donkey. She was guided by a goatherd and a pony carrying olive oil. The journey took two days. The animals were slow, the way was steep, and the path had nearly washed away from rainfall. The only bridge between St. Dalmas and the world below perched above the Valley of Merveilles. Below it were giant petroglyphs carved by some ancient race of men. One was of a powerful shaman. It scared Irene every time she saw it. Though he was the simplest stick figure, his hands tore lightening from the sky. Walking above him on that narrow bridge made even the stoutest traveler nervous.

Alongside the Shaman were other carvings, a snake-mounted warrior, a horse with raven claws, a mountain lion devouring a fawn. The glyphs were right below the pass at the intersection of Provence’s high and lowlands. Folks said the drawings had been placed to keep the mountain people on their perch and the valley dwellers down below. Whatever their intention, Irene crossed herself three times when she passed over them.

Her apprenticeship was in the town of Villefranche on the sea. Her mistress was Genève Bellevoix, but no one called her anything but La Sage. She was unmarried, which seemed unusual to Irene, and from the north. Somewhere near the capital. Her speech was almost indecipherable and Irene blundered for a time in understanding her.

“Stop boiling that mixture, girl! Nom de Dieu. ‘Twill kill a man twice over!”

Irene was preparing a cream for eye infection. She had been put in charge of herbs and mixing compounds and distilling essential oils.

“That much sulfur makes a person mad, or bald. Mark each jar ‘rectly and attend t’whit I say. All depends on lis’nig in this practice. All.”

La Sage was a dedicated listener. She wrote with terrifying skill, taking notes and scribbling cures before the patient had finished listing his complaints. She was experienced in chemistry, botany, astrology, physics, and mathematics and grew more fruit trees than Irene’s father, who’d won prizes at the spring fair. La Sage knew when a patient was inventing symptoms, hiding from work or getting out of mass. She never scolded, though, not the frauds or the cowards and certainly not the chronically ill. She didn’t berate relatives for treating their sick with honey and Cognac. And no home was too far for a visit, even when it meant dragging her mule over rocky creek beds in the middle of the night.

“Until God takes my gift,” She’d say, “I’ll serve.”

The mistress was so committed to her work she often took no payment. She never refused a patient, either. Not a drunk or a heretic or a leper. The one and only time La Sage turned down a call was when a Venetian knocked. La Sage would not treat that man, a trader, and a rich one by all accounts, and she wouldn’t say why. She simply moved on to the next patient on her list.

Irene found a pair of shackles in the cellar of her teacher’s cottage once. She uncovered the leg irons in a box of gardening tools. They were cruel looking things – thick iron manacles you’d hesitate to put on a wolf. Could La Sage have been a slave? Though Irene had never been, the city of Marseilles docked slave ships. Their captains were rumored to cast their nets at drunkards in the streets at night. Irene had not believed those tales, and yet Villefranche, a port just 75 miles from Marseilles, turned up some sordid visitors. Discolored men with whip-torn bodies contorted from shipboard travel. Irene could picture them ransoming toddlers for a piece of silver. The world these days made monsters out of monks. Irene put the shackles back where she had found them and began to watch her back when she walked in town.

“A healer’s best advice,” La Sage said at their next appointment, “Is to make the patient pull himself together.” She and Irene sat at the bedside of a tailor. He’d turned orange over night and was convinced a rival mender had poisoned him. “People have within them the best means to recover. They simply have to find the will to use it. N’est ce pas, Monsieur Sanglier?”

The poor man moaned and grabbed his stomach. He’d been retching most of the night.

“How do we do that?”

Irene offered the man a sip of water. He’d eaten nothing in two days and shook with nausea.

“That’s where the salves and medicines come in.”

La Sage gestured for Irene to follow her to the kitchen. “What we administer is confidence.”

“So the medicines don’t cure?”

“Some do. But many do better with a spoon of honey or aperitif. There are many who beg for medicine like holy water, and find a cure there. All depends on where they place their trust. If you convince a man that you can heal him, he’ll improve with a drop of goat’s milk off your finger.”

“Isn’t that . . . cheating?”

“Why?”
“Making patients think we have a miracle in goat’s milk?”

“Most of what we brew is made of milk or roots or wildflower.”
“But they’re tested recipes. Formulas you got from a . . .”
“A real doctor?”

“Well, a physic. Or a . . . magician.”

La Sage spat on the ground. “You’ve been reading fairy tales. Magicians are wastrel charlatans. Pantomimers setting fires alight. There’s no healing in it. Magic is illusion. I guarantee neither magicians nor physics ever birthed a child or calmed a fever. They’re corrupt men drunk from their own vapors.”

Irene considered this. She’d always wished to meet a physic. Her Book of Mage put great value in the astrologer-magician and in the wisdom he pulled from the heavens. Irene had read those verses a thousand times. They were the reason she was studying medicine.

“Cannot a healer and a magician both heal the sick?”

“I doubt a magician would have the time. They work for the amusement of the rich, their only toil is to keep their post. Their patrons have no interest in curing illness. They hunt for gold and conjure tricks in vials. Yes, the Arabs you’ve heard about have fine doctors, but they don’t give their healing to the poor. Nor do they allow a woman in their field. If we were in this enterprise among their nations, we would be flogged.” She shuddered. “Provence has its enemies. There are eyes on this region from Italy. If a Duke from Turin or Mantua takes these mountains the trade will close its doors to us. Beware, Irene, and hold your tongue on the issue of magicians. No good will come from it, I promise.”
After two years in Villefranche, Irene came home. She was fourteen. During her apprenticeship her father had been rendered invalid, her mother ran the farm and watched the goats. Irene’s first suitor had already made the rounds and asked to take her on a turn about the hillside. He was a cobbler’s son. Not the stuff of poetry, but not the hogman, either.

His name was Karl. He was from an Austrian family who’d immigrated after a flood. Though most of his family made clogs, Karl cut trees. Someone had to supply the wood and Karl had the shoulders for the job.

They were married a year later. And a year after that, he died.

Karl left Irene with a six-month son who she supported with her healing and what her family earned from the orchard. A savage flu came soon after and at sixteen, Irene became the most sought after woman in the village.

Her mother died first, and then her father. Then the weaver, the miller and his family, Karl’s parents, the farrier and all his near neighbors. There’d been a sickness once before like this, and it had had no cure. St. Dalmas quarantined its sick and culled them in the empty miller’s house. A handful of monks supplied them with bread and the village did their best to alert nearby communities by way of cliff-top beacons. One light meant no more dead. Two meant send more food. The extinguishing of all lights would mean their quarantine was finished.

Irene did little more than comfort the dying. La Sage explained to her that folks should know when they were at life’s end.

Sixteen years later, the plague arrived. Like the flu, it spread through contact. Irene was ready when it struck. She wore thick wool gloves and boiled them between her house calls. She wore a leather apron from the blacksmith and scrubbed it with lye each night. Like that and in a muslin facemask, she remained uninfected. As did Florin, who she schooled in vigorous washing as La Sage had taught her.

St. Dalmas’ plague toll stopped at 340 deaths. After that number there were no new cases. Villagers spent four days burying their dead, burning sick beds and scrubbing the village cobblestones. The beacons came down from the mountain and Count de Beaux replaced the highest of them with a copper lamb minted from coins the villagers pulled out of the fountain.

Three months later, Duke Domenico stormed the village. In their exhaustion from the plague, there wasn’t a hand to stop him.

 

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s