He wrote the last words, took a deep breath, scattered sand over the still drying ink and called for a candle and a tankard of ale. When the ancient old retainer tottered into the room he gestured to a bench by the fire. "Have a beer yourself, Old Stew. We've done it."
"That would be the book, sir?"
"It would."
"Much joy to you."
"And to you."
They clinked tankards, and drank deep. When he was done, he wiped his lip with a filthy sleeve and sighed heavily. "And now, for the morrow--we must discuss the marketing."
"We have been to the market only this morning, sir."
"Ah. Of course. Old Stew--may I ask--pray be frank--have you heard of this thing--I believe they call Twitter?"
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