The Pale Letter
The parchment was damp, the ink smudged into grey ghosts. I held it up to the light of the tallow candle, the wax guttering in the draft. It was a requisition for grain, stamped with the seal of the Duke of Lancaster, but the numbers were wrong. The arithmetic did not balance. I signed it anyway, my quill scratching against the rough fiber, because the alternative was starvation. Outside, the...
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