The Faded Alibi
The ink was still wet on the ledger when Thomas Bradshaw’s hand began to shake, not from the cold that seeped through the stone floor of the study, but from the weight of the quill itself, a heavy, iron-nibbed thing that felt less like a tool and more like a brand. He had come to his father’s estate, the crumbling manor of Blackwood Hall, in the late autumn of 1342, driven by the urgent need to...
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