The Pale Protocol
14 November 1347. The ink is dry, but the page is not. I hold the vellum to the light, a thin rectangle of goat skin that smells of tallow and old sweat. My finger traces the margin where the text should be. There is nothing there. Not a smudge, not a ghost of a letter, just the pale, fibrous white of the animal’s skin. I am Elias, thirty-two, a scribe in the Abbey of St. Jude, and I have three...
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