Basil shifted uncomfortably, the pungent, eye-watering stench of the warehouse drifting around him like a heavy fog. To distract himself, he started counting the crates stacked along the timber walls, but there were so many rows disappearing into the gloom that his mind grew sluggish, and he abandoned the effort. He was certain there had to be a dozen of a dozen or so, hundreds of the bloody things.
How long would a hoard like this even last? His father had mentioned that scattering this fertilizer over the earth while it lay fallow would miraculously multiply the harvest once the seeds were sown. But what was the proper measure? Did a field require a casual handful? A heavy shovelful? Or an entire wagon?
They always said coin didn't smell, but this particular fortune reeked to high heaven.
''How much do we have father?''
