The Distant Affair
The iron pot hung from the blackened hook, its belly swollen with the heavy, grey flesh of the stew that had simmered for three days without the addition of a single grain of salt. Thomas Bradshaw stood before it, his hands wrapped in rags that had long since ceased to be white, stained now by the soot of the hearth and the darker, deeper stains of the work he did in the shadows of the Priory’s...
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