The Distant Affair
The ink was moving, Elias, and if you do not stop writing, the Abbot will have you flayed before the sun sets. You looked down at the parchment, the vellum stretched tight over the oak frame, and saw the letters of the final Psalm rearranging themselves into a shape that did not belong to the text. Your hand, stained to the wrist with iron gall ink, hovered above the quill, trembling not from...
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