The Wistful Voyage
The ledger shows four hundred and twelve entries. That is the number of names I have copied in the last thirty years. My fingers are stained black up to the second knuckle, a permanent map of my service to the Abbey of St. Jude. I am forty-two years old, and I have not left the scriptorium in three days. The air is thick with the smell of oak gall and wet parchment, a scent that has replaced...
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