The Pale Dance
The letter lay on the oak desk, its seal broken, the ink still wet enough to smear if one breathed too heavily upon it. Elara read the three lines twice, her fingers tracing the indentations of the scribe’s quill, before she tucked it into the fold of her woolen robe. It was a notice from the prior, Brother Thomas, informing her that her tenure as assistant archivist at the Abbey of St. Jude...
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