"Sign it and go," the village scribe spat.
Lea hurled the torn paper back so hard it slapped his inkstained hand.
"That's a waste of paper," someone laughed.
"Make her read it," Maureen Castle said, loud and precise.
"Colin did his duty. Leave it at that," the scribe said, and he slammed another copy onto the wooden table.
"Sign or be marked," a neighbor offered, as if marking was a favor.
Lea leaned on the gatepost and let them circle like vultures. She said, "I won't sign what I didn't write."
"Then you leave with nothing," Maureen said.
"You're the one who left everything," the scribe replied in a voice meant to be fair and final.
"She took his books and his shame," a cousin crowed.
"Lea," Aunt Maureen called soft enough to sound like pity. "Think of the family."
"Is your family still thinking?" Lea shot back. "Of course, it does. It thinks it won't get dirt on its hands if I carry it."
"Watch your tongue," Maureen snapped.
"Watch yours first. You polished Colin's boots while he looked at other people's daughters," Lea said.
"Enough!" the scribe banged a wooden ruler. "Sign."
"No." Lea folded her arms.
"Do you want the whole village to know why you were left?" someone taunted.
"You already do," Lea said, and she spat—at the paper, at the air, at the scribe's neat forehead.
A child laughed. Men shifted. Women lowered their eyes like
