The Golden Song
The parchment was thin, translucent enough that the grain of the oak table showed through like a vein beneath skin, and the ink had not yet dried when I signed it, the nib scratching a sound that felt too loud in the silent cellar. I am Thomas Bradshaw, twenty-four years old, a novice at St. Jude’s Abbey, and I have just committed an act of forgery that will either secure my ordination or...
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