The Faded Shield
The count was four hundred and twelve stitches short. I counted them again, my fingers numb, the wool rough against the calluses on my palms. The light in the loft was thin, a pale gray sheet that stretched from the eastern window to the floor, marking the hours by its slant. My brother, Silas, owed the collector forty pounds. Forty pounds was a small thing in the city, but here in Oakhaven,...
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