Franconia, 1815. This is the scene Hagan saw when he departed. A university town, a fortress on the hill, three inns worth knowing, and a woman who had a reason for him to return.
Roadside shrines, whitewashed and carefully tended, marking a battle nobody in the fields seems inclined to discuss.
A black eagle, a Bavarian crested helmet, and a white swan nobody has bothered to paint.
A quiet inn across the bridge from the fortress, well kept in a way that tells you something about the proprietor before you've crossed the threshold.
Seven hundred years of the Main's trade, funneled through one crossing that has outlasted every army that ever marched over it.
Widowed at Polotsk, recruited into a network a century older than the war that made her useful to it.
The western approach. Fewer lampposts. Three of them dark, and have been for a month.
A ghost story told by Ox. Nine loads of wood, a tenth, and a man whose name nobody remembers.
A short story from the archive. Dr. Fraser-MacDonald, a woman from Schweinfurt, and a valley he once wrote a whole book about.