The Wistful Witness
The parchment is rough under my thumb, the ink still wet and black as a bruise. I am writing this in the sealed scriptorium of the Bishop’s palace, in the year of our Lord 1348, and my hand trembles not from the cold, but from the weight of the words I must set down. I am an inquisitor, forty years old, and I have come here to prove that my brother, Thomas, is innocent of heresy, yet every...
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