The Golden Crossing
The ink on the ledger was not yet dry, a slick, black river of obligation that pooled in the gutters of the parchment, reflecting the flickering, anxious light of the tallow candles that lined the high, vaulted ceiling of the scriptorium, where the air tasted of stale dust, heated wax, and the metallic tang of fear that clung to the back of Thomas Bradshaw’s throat like a fishbone. He sat at...
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