The Golden Harbor
The letter lies on the stone floor, its seal broken, the ink still wet and weeping. You read it twice, your eyes dry, your stomach a hollow ache against your ribs. It is from Thomas Bradshaw, the man who sold your name to the magistrate, the man who called you a thief. He writes that he saw you burn the ledger in the courtyard, that he saw your face in the fire, that he knows you did it. The...
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