A Notice from the Smokehouse

A found paper of Sogmarsh — pinned to the Saltgate smokehouse door. In one blunt hand.

NOTICE, from the Smokehouse.

The fleet is very fine. It is not going anywhere. Neither, therefore, is your winter — provided you bring your fish to be cured through the Short, and not, as is the custom, all at once on the last cold day, weeping, expecting salt to be cheap and smoke to be free.

Salt is dear. Smoke is dearer. Grief is free, and I have no room for it in the smokehouse. Bring the fish early and the town eats. Bring it late and you may watch the boats, which is what you came for anyway.

— Marget Reek. The boats are the romance. This is the trade.

— beneath, in another hand — "We do love her." — the town.