The winter of 1348 seemed to last an eternity, but the Pestilence struck in one day. Still, here we are in this dingy, foggy city. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. “Anna,” he cried eagerly. But Melusine’s own words had thrown an idea into her head.
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