The Last Ledger

The King’s Arms inn smelled of wet wool and stale beer. It was January 1815, and the snow had fallen so thick it had swallowed the road to London whole. I stood at the counter, my knuckles white around the handle of the crate containing my late husband’s ledgers. If those papers were wet, I was a pauper by March.

Behind me, a dozen other travelers jostled for the innkeeper’s attention. He wiped his forehead with a rag and tapped the single empty ledger on the counter.

"One room left," he announced, his voice flat. "Eleven of you want it. First to pay takes it."