The Pale Verdict
The road to the Abbey of St. Jude was a scar in the autumn earth, choked with brambles that had not been cut in a season. Elias Bradshaw, a man of fifty years whose hands had once been steady enough to bind the finest manuscripts in London, now felt the tremor in his fingers as he gripped the reins of his mule. He had come to transcribe the testament of his brother Thomas, a dying man who held...
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