The Golden Suspect
The hall of the Abbey of St. Jude was not a place of silence, but of roaring hunger. You remember the heat of it, the oppressive weight of the smoke rising from the tallow candles, and the smell of roasted pork and stale ale that clung to the wool of your habit like a second skin. It was the Feast of the Transfiguration, a night when the abbey’s rigid hierarchy dissolved into a blur of noise...
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