The Wistful Petal
The ledger for the Feast of Saint Jude lists forty-three roasted pheasants, twelve barrels of ale, and one silver chalice, the latter valued at six hundred crowns, a sum that would buy a man’s freedom or a village’s winter grain, yet I held it in my hands with the care of a man holding a sleeping bird, unaware that the metal was already warm against my palm despite the bitter draught leaking...
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