The Wistful Mirror
The parchment lay flat on the oak desk, the ink still wet and black as a bruise, detailing a fine of twelve shillings for the smudging of the Gospels’ margin. Elias read the sum twice, his finger tracing the loop of the ‘s’ in shillings, feeling the rough grain of the paper against his skin. It was a pittance, barely enough for a loaf of bread and a measure of coarse ale, yet it felt like a...
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