The Distant Affair
The rain did not fall so much as it insisted, a grey curtain drawn tight against the high, arched windows of the Abbey of St. Jude, where the air smelled of wet stone, dried lavender, and the faint, metallic tang of old blood. You are the ink, she told me, her voice low and steady in the hush of the scriptorium, where the only other sound was the rhythmic, wet scratch of quills against...
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