Sarne tipped his purse out onto the trestle in the middle of the yard fair, and the whole crowd leaned in to hear it land.
The fair was small. It came up the valley road on the sixth day of every ten. The carters and the farm wives from the river farms set out their goods at the Keep gate and called prices across the cobbles. Today there were apples in baskets, a tinker with a tray of hooks, and two men selling rope with loud voices and no shade.
Earlier, the Ministry carter had brought a parcel up from the store. Dorran had signed for it at the gate, and then he had said sorry to the carter for the delay, and then he had carried the parcel to the kitchen step with both hands.
Joss had taken the brown bottle out of the parcel and held it up to the light. The label was clean and printed, in a Ministry hand, with a name and a dose and a date. She read it slowly, moving her lips, and then she read it again.
“It says what it is,” said Joss, in a small surprised voice.
“Then take the dose on the label,” said Calen. “Not the dose you think is right.”
