The Distant Ghost
The vial was cold against Thomas’s palm, the glass slick with condensation that smelled of damp earth and old pennies. He held it up to the single tallow candle in the scriptorium, watching the green liquid swirl. It was thick, viscous, like molten copper. Outside, the wind tore at the shutters of the Abbey of St. Jude, a sound like tearing linen. Thomas was twelve years old, his fingers...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews