The Hospice of Saint Julian smells of straw, onion pottage, and wet wool that has walked.

Sister Pernell has a spine under her kindness. “Storm custom,” she says. “We do not turn a traveler into weather. Alms if they have them. Work if they can. A bed anyway. The inn across the water is a bill, and an honest bill. We are a duty. Do not mix the two or both get stupid.”

Jennet sits with Hop, who is small and fierce about the idea of a pewter badge from Holmewell. Aelric the clerk has parchment on his knee, a list that is a map if you know how to read hours.

Pilgrims stack. Saint Elswith’s day makes traffic. A shrine is a place people walk toward; the walking is the point, and also the problem.

Pernell puts a ladle in your hand, or a look that is a ladle.

Straw pallets in rows. A man drying his hose. A woman counting beads and also counting coins for the inn if the hospice overflows. Hop has a string around his neck for a badge that is not yet there. Pernell’s rule is older than her: weather gets a yes.