The Wistful Incense
The ink in the well was black as a bruise, and Brother Thomas watched it ripple under the tremor of his hand, knowing that if he did not finish this final page of the Book of Hours by morning, the Abbot would not merely deny him his pension but would sell his labor to the secular lords who owed the abbey more than they owed God. The air in the scriptorium was thick with the scent of myrrh, a...
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