The Distant Garden
The fever did not break so much as it settled, a heavy, coal-black weight that pressed Thomas Bradshaw into the straw of his cot until he could no longer distinguish the stone walls of the infirmary from the soot of his own lungs. He was forty years old, a former soldier who had traded the sword for the cowl, yet the body he wore in the Abbey of St. Jude remained a map of old wounds and new...
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