The Golden Farce
The bell in the tower of St. Jude’s did not ring. It choked. You stand before the gate of the academy, the iron bars cold against your palm. The air smells of wet stone and old iron, a metallic taste that coats the back of your throat. You are twelve years old. You are a scribe’s apprentice. You are waiting to be measured. The gate opens. It is not a man who steps through, but a shadow, a...
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