The Wistful Skyline
The ink in the psalter is moving, and you know it is not the ink. You are Elias, thirty-four years old, your fingers stained with the iron-gall that has eaten through your cuticles for the last three months, and you are sitting in the scriptorium of St. Jude’s Abbey, a place of crumbling stone and silence that smells of damp wool and old dust, watching the marginalia of the water-damaged Book...
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