The Golden Mirror
The rain against the slate roof of St. Jude’s Abbey sounds like the scratching of a thousand quills, a relentless, rhythmic tapping that drives into the bone of your skull as you sit hunched over the ledger, your fingers stained with iron-gall ink that will never wash out, mirroring the permanent stain of your father’s guilt. You are twelve years old, a scribe of the third order, and your hands...
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