The Faded Quadrant
The snow fell in thick, silent curtains over the valley, burying the stone walls of the Abbey of Saint Cuthbert until only the uppermost turrets remained visible, like the masts of a ship stranded in a white sea. Thomas Bradshaw, the royal inquisitor, stood in the courtyard, his breath pluming in the freezing air, his hands trembling not from the cold but from the weight of the parchment...
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