She will need a scribe. Someone who will walk around the factory and not simply assume that he has seen destruction, but will open his eyes and note down the details
IT is dawn by the time they come to call her. Dawn, and too late.
Leonora has been sitting by the window — another sleepless night had come to call — so she sees them as they come through the streets, a little knot of men with lanterns bobbing in their hands, even though they barely need them now, for the summer sun rises early.
Leonora cranes her neck out of the window and narrows her eyes better to focus.
She recognizes the foreman of the wool factory. What has happened?
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