The Wistful Dinner
The parchment lay on the oak table, its edges curling in the damp air of the scriptorium, and Brother Thomas Bradshaw stared at the ink until the words blurred into a black smear. It was a simple ledger entry, written in the Abbot’s cramped, jagged hand: *To the Lord of Ashworth, five sacks of winter wheat, paid in full, delivered this day.* Thomas’s thumb pressed against the rough grain of the...
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