The Wistful Witness
Holloway, get down there. The Bishop’s voice cut through the damp chill of the nave, sharp and final, and I felt the weight of the lantern in my hand as if it were made of lead. I was forty-two years old, a scholar of the cathedral school in Oakhaven, and my fingers were stained with ink from the ledger where I had spent the morning calculating the debt my father had left behind, a sum that...
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