The Faded Dust
The seal on the great oak door of the Abbey of St. Jude was not broken by force, but by time, the iron bands rusted into a brittle lattice that crumbled under the weight of Sir Thomas Bradshaw’s gauntleted hand. He stood in the grey pre-dawn light, a man of forty years whose face was a map of the last three years of plague, the hollows of his cheeks shadowed by the cowl of his black surcoat,...
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