The Distant Metropolis
The vellum was too thick for the quill, a mistake in the procurement that cost the abbey three shillings and the novice her patience. Elara scraped the nib against the leather, the friction a dry, gritty sound in the silent scriptorium, while the Abbot’s shadow lengthened across her desk like a black ink stroke. She did not look up; to look up was to invite the gaze, and the gaze was a weight...
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