The Wistful Dinner
The ink froze before the thought did. Elias pressed the quill against the vellum, the tip cracking against the cold surface, and the scribe’s hand trembled so violently that the letter *V* in *Vita* looked like a shiver of dust. It was the year of our Lord 1342, and the Abbey of St. Jude stood hunched against the wind like a beggar against a wall. The Whisper had begun three days prior, a low,...
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