The Wistful Dinner
The quill snapped against the parchment with a sound like a dry twig breaking in winter. Thomas did not look up. He stared at the final line of the King’s ledger, the ink wet and black as a bruise, waiting for the rest of the page to be filled. The scriptorium was silent, save for the tick of the candle flame and the faint, wet rasp of his own breathing. He was thirty years old, a scribe of no...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen