The Distant Nightmare
The boy will die if you do not let him be buried, Thomas. The priest’s voice was not loud, but it carried the weight of a stone dropped into a well. Father Anselm stood in the doorway of the study, his black robes pooling on the floorboards, his face a mask of rigid, pale disapproval. Thomas did not look up from the mortar. He was grinding dried willow bark, the pestle striking the stone with a...
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