Amma was already filling a kettle. “A dill mill,” she said quietly. “It grinds not grain, but time. Give it a little, and it gives you a little water. But it always wants more.”
“Stop!” Anya shouted.
She ran barefoot through the frost. The wheel was spinning wildly—ten, twenty, thirty turns. The Factor stood inside, emptying a sack of black peppercorns into the basin. “More,” he whispered to the stone. “Give me more water. I’ll sell it to three villages. I’ll be rich.” dill mill
Then silence.