The Wistful Letter
The nib scratched the vellum with a sound like a rat gnawing on bone. Thomas Bradshaw, twelve years old and hollowed by hunger, pressed his hand flat against the psalter’s edge, feeling the damp cold of the Abbey of St. Jude seep into his knuckles. He was not copying the text; he was hunting the margin. There, in the faded ink of a twelfth-century scribe, a glyph pulsed with a faint, sickly...
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