Dawn was breaking, and dew condensed on the moss-covered bluestone pathway, reflecting the morning light. The rope at the gate of the posthouse, greasy and turned white, still hung with the "Open for Business" sign.
Inside, on the hardwood tables, the iron kettles were already boiling, and the tea leaves were slowly steeping in the cups, turning a light amber color.
Rows of servants, who had been sleeping on the chairs and tables in the hall, had already folded and packed their bedding. Now they were comfortably enjoying steaming hot buns and rice porridge, complemented with pickled vegetables—a truly delightful meal.
"Duke, guessing you'll be hitting the road again, I had some ginger soup prepared early this morning and distributed it to your caravan," the innkeeper said, keeping the pots in the water bottles so you can drink it slowly along the way and stay warm all day long."
