The Golden Farce
The letter from the Diocese lay on the workbench, the ink still damp, its demand for the spire’s completion by the winter solstice stark against the grain of the oak. You read it twice, your thumb rubbing the edge of the paper until the fibers frayed, calculating the cost of your failure against the debt that chained you to this cathedral. You were Silas, a stonemason of thirty-two years, and...
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