The miller’s son was dressing the stone, or in everyday language he was sharpening its teeth. It was an old stone; it had been there for nigh a hundred years. For these hundreds years the milers had made the finest flour. Each taught his son, and his son taught his son. There would always be a miller in Orleans. Running an experienced hand over the stone, the miller’s son smiled. Though war and rebellion should come. Though famine and plague should visits. The stone would always stand. Never moving, little changing. An anchor of humanity.