From the Charred Remains by Susanna Calkins

these words.” But mostly she would read each word and he would build it into place without speaking.
    Lucy’s throat was parched and dry, but she did not dare ask Master Aubrey for a break. The printer seemed excited, as if he couldn’t wait to finish the piece and sell it. Like the printer, Lach never let his fingers stop moving, setting part of the middle document, although from time to time he directed a baleful glance toward Lucy. She supposed that they usually stopped when necessity called.
    The Miscellany was quite long now, but no matter. At last, they were done setting the type. Master Aubrey let Lach run out back to piss in a pot by the door, and began to dab black ink onto the letters himself with a soft leather pad.
    When his apprentice returned, together they placed the paper onto the typeface and lowered the lid while Lucy watched. Pushing a great lever back and forth, the two men finally stopped. With great excitement, Lucy watched them open up the press. There was the first page. “From the Charred Remains,” and a woodcut of the Great Fire. The woodcut had already been used in the L’Estrange piece. As she had learned a year ago, it was common for printers to use the same images repeatedly, once they had asked an artist to carve the block. Reusing the pieces saved both money and time.
    After a quick lunch of bread, cheese, and mead, the three continued. They finished the four sheets and hung them to dry. By early afternoon, they had cut and folded the first few. They were ready to sell.
    Master Aubrey stepped outside of his shop with Lucy and Lach following, the latter scowling. The printer began his customary call. “A murder! A true and most terrible account of a barbarous murder committed before the Great Fire. From the Charred Remains, his corpse emerged from a malt barrel.”
    Within a few minutes, a crowd had gathered eagerly. Remembering what Master Aubrey had said about the presses being delayed by the King, many townspeople, milling toward the market, seemed eager for a new story. And as Master Aubrey liked to say, “Everyone loves a good murder.”
    After they’d read it once, the crowd was clearly growing. Those toward the back clamored for the story to be read again.
    Lucy was quite surprised, though, when the printer put his arm around her shoulders and proclaimed to the crowd, “This fair lass here was the one who did find the body. A foreigner from a far-off land! Found with a poem, now printed on the back sheet.”
    People oohed and ahhed, eyeing her curiously. Londoners’ natural cheerful morbidity began to show. “Tell us, lass, was he truly stuffed in a barrel? A knife through his chest?” one called out.
    Lucy nodded.
    “Was there a lot of blood?” another asked.
    “Of course there was, you idiot,” another crossly answered. “What, think you that a knife in the chest there won’t be a lot of blood?”
    The crowd murmured about this. “Let’s hear the poem!” someone called.
    Master Aubrey straightened up, and with a great booming voice, read the poem. The crowd shuffled back and forth. Not quite the doggerel they were used to, but some nodded approvingly. Master Aubrey then recounted the story of how the man was found stuffed in the barrel.
    “Say, that’s an interesting tale to be sure,” another man called out, moving forward. He handed Lucy a penny for the collection, and put the pamphlet in his cloak. “Who was this poor sot, do you know?”
    “Why, I have no idea,” Lucy said.
    “Where was this body found, exactly?” the man persisted.
    “As likely as not,” Lucy said, “the constable thinks it must have been near the Cheshire Cheese. You remember the tavern. He’s sent word to the tavern owner, but I don’t know if he heard back from him. If he even will. A lot of people don’t seem to have returned yet.” She saw a few people nodding.
    “Where did you get the poems from?” another woman asked, her hands on her cheeks. She looked to be about