The Pale Letter
The ink was cold. Elias wiped his quill on the rag, the motion dry and mechanical, and stared at the parchment before him. He was thirty years old, and his hands did not shake, but his eyes burned from the strain of the small letters. He had been copying the *Book of Hours* for the Abbot for six months, a task that would secure the release of his father’s debt, a debt that had eaten the family...
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