The Wistful Silence
The ledger said four hundred and twelve lines of text remained to be copied before the *Book of Hours* was finished, a count I had made three times in the damp silence of the scriptorium, my finger tracing the dry, cracked skin of the vellum until the parchment felt as heavy as wet clay in my hands. I was twenty-four years old, and I had spent the last fifteen of those years under the watchful,...
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