The Faded Frequency
The ink on the parchment had begun to bleed into the grain of the wood, a slow, darkening tide that Margery watched with the weary patience of a woman who had learned that time in the Abbey of Saint Cuthbert did not move in straight lines but in circles, tightening like a noose around the throat of the world, and she thought of how the light fell through the high, arched windows in the late...
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