The Faded Guest
Thorne. The word came from the magistrate, a sharp bark that cut through the damp air of the carriage. I looked up from the ledger, the ink on my finger still wet, and saw the shadow of the constable’s baton against the window pane. It was the third day of November, 1347, and the light had already begun to fail, turning the grey moor outside into a bruised expanse of slate and mud. I was forty...
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