The Distant Machine
The ink is still wet on the page when the coughing starts, a wet, rattling sound that seems to come from the very stones of the cathedral floor. You are writing in the margin of your ledger, the one you keep for the guild’s account of the stone-cutters, but your hand is trembling, and the letters are slanting, losing their rigid architectural precision. You are the Inquisitor of the Masons’...
0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare