The Distant Promise
The ink was still wet on the ledger when I heard the door latch click, a sound like a bone snapping in the quiet of the office. I did not look up. I was balancing the accounts for the winter grain, a task that required more precision than the magistrate’s son had ever shown me, but the air in the room had turned cold and smelled of wet wool and old dust. Thomas stood by the desk, his hands in...
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