The Wistful Cipher
The quill was heavy, heavier than it had any right to be, its shaft carved from a bone so white it seemed to drink the candlelight rather than reflect it. I held it in my left hand, my right clutching the edge of the parchment, my knuckles white against the rough, fibrous surface, and I waited for the ink to dry before the dampness of the cellar could swallow the letters whole. The Abbey of St....
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