The matriarch was buried before noon. By one o'clock, Elizabeth stood in the Gazette's back room with the will pressed flat under her palm, and she had no way to put it into the town's hands. She read the first article again. Justin was no longer a journeyman. He was a master. That single line would lift his chin for the first time in a week. There were nineteen more articles behind it, each one naming a person, a promise, or a debt the matriarch wanted paid. Every household in Donnell was owed a copy. The Gazette owned two ink pots, a stack of rag paper, and a single steel nib. Elizabeth had done the arithmetic on the walk back from the graveyard. Hand-copying twenty articles across forty-one households came to eight hundred and twenty pages. Three weeks of writing, at best. The town would not hold together three weeks. She had seen the faces at the chapel. People were already drifting. She needed a press. There was no press in Donnell. She pulled her coat back on and crossed to the municipal building with the columns and the wide blue doors. The licensing hall smelled of fresh varnish and paper dust. Clerks moved between tables stacked with permits. A ledger sat open on the front counter, the ink still wet. Elizabeth asked the clerk for every filing tied to printing equipment. He turned two pages and stopped. "Papermill curator filed a machine permit last month," he said. "Flatbed press. Type case included. Not licensed for public run yet." "Who signed the intake?" "Head lawyer. Your teacher." Elizabeth walked the will across town to the Papermill. Steve Lynch was in the drying room, sleeves rolled, checking sheets on the racks. He listened to her without turning around. When she finished, he wiped his hands on a rag. "Press is crated. I haven't set the type bed. I don't have a license to print for the town." "You have a license to test equipment," Elizabeth said. "I read the filing on the walk here. A test run of two hundred sheets is permitted before public licensing. Article one goes on the front. The other nineteen fit on the back if we set them tight." He looked at the will. "Two hundred sheets covers every roof, with spares." "That's the point." They uncrated the press together. Steve set the type while Elizabeth read each article aloud so he could pick letters faster. The bed locked at dusk. The first pull came off smudged. The second was clean. By midnight they had one hundred and eighty printed sheets stacked between boards. At dawn Elizabeth walked the bundle to the Gazette and slid the top sheet under the front page plate. Article one ran above the fold. Justin's name sat in fresh black ink where the whole town would see it before breakfast. The clerk from the licensing hall was waiting on the step. He was holding a written complaint. The head judge wanted to know who had authorized a printing run without a public license.