The Distant Promise
The quill, cut from the primary wing of a goose and sharpened until it was thin as a razor’s edge, rested in the trembling hand of Brother Thomas, a weight that felt less like a tool and more like a bone protruding from his flesh. He held it over the vellum of the *Book of Hours*, the tip hovering a millimeter above the gold leaf that was meant to crown the final illumination, the air in the...
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