Maybe it was the way people walked, or the way their carts worked over the deeply rutted main street. Maybe it was the furtive glances from the children, or the long contemplative stared from the elderly. The general brownness of the place, perhaps, everything caked by dust and debris that would normally be brushed away in the course of daily life.

It could have been any one of those things, or even all of them; Reynald couldn’t be sure. But he felt one thing as clearly as if it were spelled out in stone on the local church.

Bernwald was a melancholy place.

Borne down by some weight, the heavy sadness was evident in every man, woman, and child Reynald could see.