The Distant Summer
"Did you touch it?" Brother Thomas’s voice was a dry rasp, like sand dragged across a slate. "The 1402 entry. Did you touch the margin?" Elara did not look up from the ledger. Her fingers, stained with the black iron gall ink that smelled of vinegar and rust, hovered over the vellum. The scriptorium was silent, save for the scratch of quills in the adjacent stalls and the low, constant hum of...
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