The Wistful Cipher
The quill scratched against the parchment with a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. Thomas Bradshaw pressed his left hand flat against the desk to steady the right, his fingers trembling not from the cold of the scriptorium but from the dull, rhythmic throb in his chest that had become his constant companion for three years. He was forty years old, though the candlelight made his...
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