At the top of the threshold ramp, fifty paces south of the witness ring, the amber curtain of the Outer Threshold Grace Window was now no thicker than a pane of blown bottle-glass.
Everyone else from the final clearance group had already crossed the white chalk sill into the courtyard. Outside on the flagstone porch, Hobb was ladling hot barley broth into battered tin mugs for the stretcher-bearers, his ladle clinking against the rim of the stockpot with a steady, rhythmic tap. Fen and Soldier Joss had carried the last bundle of wool clinic blankets down toward the riverside foundation, their boots crunching over the wet gravel of the wagon rut. Across the outer gallery, Reeve Dena Holt and two woodcutters from the lower mill were stacking split birch against the cold stone beside Ossa Flint’s stoves, the logs thudding into the timber cradles like dull mallets.
The hall had emptied until the only living souls left inside the court were the clerks, the witnesses, and the dead.
Only Hesta Quill remained inside the line. Her left heel rested half an inch on the hall side of the threshold stone, her patched leather boots powdered with lime dust, and her arms were folded snug across the faded plum wool of her travelling cloak.
