The Golden Song
The parchment was stiff, yellowed by the damp of the cellar where it had been stored, and the ink had run in a single, jagged place near the signature. I held it up to the thin light filtering through the shutters, my thumb pressing against the coarse grain of the paper. The sum was three hundred crowns. That was what the magistrate’s clerk had written, in a hand that looked like a spider’s...
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