The Golden Master
The bell has not rung in three days, and the silence is a heavy, wet thing that sits upon the shoulders of the monks of Saint Jude’s Abbey, pressing down on the stone floor where the dust motes dance in the single shaft of afternoon light that pierces the high, arched window. You are the bell-ringer, or you were, for the last few days, before your hands began to tremble with a violence that no...
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