The Golden Mirror
The parchment smelled of damp wool and old ink. I held the summons in my left hand, the one that still ached from the frostbite of last winter. The seal was broken, the wax cracked like dry skin. High Magistrate Aldous had written in a hand so sharp it seemed to cut the paper. I was to appear in the capital within three days. I was to confess to the theft of the silver chalice from the church...
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