The Wistful Letter
The candle had burned low, leaving a pool of wax that hardened against the wooden desk like a scab. Thomas dipped his quill, the iron-gall ink dark and viscous, and began the final verse of the Psalms. The air in the scriptorium was thick, damp with the smell of wet wool and old paper, a cold that seeped into his joints and made his fingers stiff. He was a scribe of the Abbey of St. Jude, a man...
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