The Golden Cellar
The air in the cellar of the Abbey of St. Jude tasted of iron and old stone, a metallic tang that coated the back of Thomas’s throat. He was thirty years old, his hands rough from years of tending the roots of the earth, and he descended the spiral stairs with the heavy, deliberate caution of a man walking on ice. Above him, the world of the village was a distant, blurred concept; down here, in...
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