The Faded Alibi
The bread rose in the oven of the King’s new palace, a slow, golden expansion that smelled of yeast and impending judgment, while I stood in the shadow of the great hearth, watching the steam curl against the cold stone windows like the ghosts of those who had never been allowed to taste it. I was Thomas Bradshaw, master baker of the royal household, and for forty years my hands had been...
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