The Wistful Voyage
The frost has not yet taken the valley, but it sits upon the stones of the scriptorium like a judgment you cannot shake. You are writing to Thomas, your brother, the Abbot of St. Jude’s, and the ink is black, but the hand holding the quiver is a stump, bandaged tight against the bone. You do not write with grace; you write with the mechanical precision of a man who has spent twenty years...
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