The Faded Attic
The charcoal stick snapped against the oak desk with a sound like a dry bone breaking, and Elara’s fingers, blue with the cold, trembled as she tried to steady the broken end against the vellum. It was the hour of vespers in the scriptorium, but the light had failed, leaving her in the amber gloom of the single tallow candle that Brother Thomas had allowed her, a meager allowance of wax that...
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