The Golden Master
The bread was stale, hard as a river stone, and Thomas Ashworth held it up to the dim, flickering light of the dormitory lamp, examining the grey mold that had begun to speckle its surface like the constellations he had once mapped in the clear, cold nights above the Somme. It was a loaf of white wheat, simple and unadorned, but in his hands, it felt heavy with a history that predated his own...
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