The Wistful Grid
14th of November, 1342. I have counted the coins in the till. There are fourpence short. The cold is in the floorboards, a damp chill that soaks through the soles of my boots and settles in the marrow. I am Elias Vane, constable of the West Quarter, and I am writing this down because the ink is fresh and the fear is not. My father’s ring is gone. It was a signet of silver, engraved with the...
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