The notice was pinned into the crack of the doorframe sometime before sunrise.

Mara saw it when she stepped out to shake crumbs from the cloth. At first she thought it was a scrap caught in the wood, some blown bit of wrapping from the road. Then she saw the fold and the cracked seal. She pulled it free and stood there a moment with the cloth in one hand and the paper in the other.

“Darin,” she called into the house. “There’s paper on the door.”

Darin wiped his hands on his trousers and took the folded notice from her. He turned it once in the light, then again. The writing across the outside was tight and slanted. He could pick out his own household name well enough. Above it sat a neat pressed mark in the wax.

Not Branik’s.

“You know it?” Mara asked.

“No.”

“But you know it’s not from the chapel.”

“It’s not from the chapel.”

Behind them the door creaked open again. Mara’s mother, Sela, leaned out, shawl hanging loose over one shoulder.

“What’s that?”

“Paper,” Mara said.

“I can see that. From who?”

Darin turned the notice once more, as though the rest of the writing might loosen if he looked at it long enough.

“It’s from up-valley,” he said finally.

“You’ve not opened it?” Sela asked sharply.

“It was already opened.”

“Then read it.”

Darin handed it over. “You read it.”

She peered at the lines, made a low sound in her throat, and shoved it back at him.

“Don’t be clever with me.”

“I’m not.”

Mara watched them both and felt something slow and unpleasant settle in her stomach.

“Take it to Branik,” she said.

Darin nodded once, folded the notice carefully, and slipped it into his coat.

“I’ll go now.”

Branik, lampkeeper of the village chapel, was not alone when Darin reached the abbey path. He stood beside the low stone wall near the gate speaking with a man Darin did not recognize.

The stranger wore a darker traveling coat and carried a narrow leather case tucked beneath one arm, the sort scribes used for loose pages and copied rolls. A satchel hung at his hip stamped with a small mark Darin did not know.

The two men were speaking quietly. Branik noticed Darin first and lifted a hand.

“Just a moment, Darin.”

The stranger glanced toward him. His eyes lingered briefly on the folded notice in Darin’s hand before he turned back to Branik.

“Another time,” the man said. He pushed open the abbey door and stepped inside.

Darin watched the door longer than he meant to.

“Morning,” Branik said.

“Morning.”

Darin held out the notice. Branik took it, turned it once in his hands, and nodded faintly.

“Clerk’s hand,” he said. “From the abbey.”

“Can you read it?”

“I can,” Branik said. He glanced once toward the abbey door, then back to Darin.

“But I know someone with sharper eyes than mine.”

“I’ll stop by after dusk,” he continued. “Bring the lamp close and we’ll see what it wants.”

Darin nodded, his stomach beginning to coil.

By the time dusk crept down the valley, the house had been swept twice. Mara told herself it needed doing. The corners near the hearth always gathered dust this time of year, and the boards by the door carried grit from the road. Still, she swept them again.

The notice sat folded on the shelf above the table, unopened since morning.

Tomas came in from the yard and wiped his hands on his trousers before leaning over the table.

“Do we open it?” he asked.

“No,” Mara said.

“We could try.”

“We could,” Darin said. “But we won’t.”

Tomas squinted at the writing as though it might give way under enough attention.

“It might say something important.”

“If it says something important, Branik will read it soon enough,” Sela said from the corner chair. She had been watching the paper all afternoon as though it might sprout legs and walk away.

“Who’s the guest?” Tomas asked.

“No one said guest,” Mara said.

“He said someone.”

Darin did not answer immediately. He remembered the man beside Branik at the abbey wall. The leather case. The satchel. The way the stranger had glanced once at the folded notice before stepping back inside.

“He didn’t say who,” Darin said at last.

“That man you saw,” Sela asked. “Did he look like a clerk?”

Darin glanced at her, thinking of the case under the man’s arm.

“Maybe.”

Mara stopped sweeping.

“A clerk?” she said quietly.

“Paper from the abbey. Clerk comes down the same day,” Sela said, leaning back in her chair.

“No one said he was coming here,” Darin said.

“No,” Sela agreed. “But Branik said someone would.”

The room fell quiet.

Lysa, their youngest, climbed onto the bench and peered at the notice on the shelf.

“Maybe he’s coming to take it back,” she said.

“No one is taking anything,” Mara said quickly. She set the broom aside and reached for the better bowls in the cupboard.

“We’ll have supper like decent people.”

“Those are the good bowls,” Tomas said.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re not animals.”

“Is someone in trouble?”

“...No,” Darin said, after a moment.

The last light slipped through the window and across the folded paper on the shelf. It looked too small for the way the house felt around it.

The knock came just after full dark. Darin stood so quickly he nearly knocked the bench behind him over.

When he opened the door, he found Branik with his hat in one hand. Beside him stood a girl. She stepped forward into the lamplight behind him, braid hanging over one shoulder and a small satchel tucked beneath her arm.

The room went still. Darin and Mara shared a look as the priest’s daughter dipped her head politely.

“This is Elen,” Branik said.

No one spoke for a moment.

Branik passed her the notice. Elen moved closer to the lamp and held the paper near the flame. Her lips moved slightly as she worked through the lines.

“It says... correction notice,” she read slowly. “Household of Darin Hale.”

She shifted the page a little closer to the light.

“From the Abbey of Brightpath.”

Darin felt his stomach begin to drop.

Elen continued.

“Memorial ledger... verified deceased...”

She paused, then read more carefully.

“But shrine register still lists Halen as living member of the household.” Elen frowned, lowering the page and looking to Branik.

“That’s the same name, Dad.”

Sela leaned forward sharply. “That’s my father.”

Branik took the page from Elen and scanned the lines.

“Halen of this household is recorded correctly in the memorial book,” he said. “But whoever copied the shrine rotation register never struck his name from the living roll.”

“He’s been dead eleven years,” Darin said simply.

“The shrine book doesn’t know that.” Branik tapped the page lightly. “So it believes there is one more body in the household than there should be.”

“And because of that?” Darin asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Because of that,” Branik said, “you’ve been counted for one extra share of lamp oil and one extra turn in the cleaning rotation this quarter.”

For a moment no one spoke. Sela broke the silence with a snort.

“He hasn’t swept the alcove in eleven years.”

Branik almost smiled.

“Registers can be slow to notice these things.”

Elen pointed to the page. “There’s a line here. It says the household can confirm the death through chapel witness.”

Branik nodded, then looked up at Darin.

“That’s easy enough. I’ll sign that Halen is buried and properly recorded. The abbey corrects the shrine ledger. Your duties go back to the right number.”

Branik handed the notice back across the table. Elen was still studying the page near the bottom.

“They copied the name wrong here too,” she said quietly. Her father leaned over her shoulder.

“...huh. Well spotted."