The Wistful Letter
The count was precise, a bureaucratic necessity etched into the damp air of the scriptorium: four hundred and twelve hours of labor, twelve pounds of oak gall ink, and three silver deniers owed to the Duke’s treasury for the privilege of breathing within these walls. Brother Elias, a scribe of thirty-two years and a prisoner of debt, sat before the *Book of Hours*, the candle flame trembling in...
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