The Distant Joke
The count of the vellum sheets was precise, a ritual of survival that Thomas Bradshaw performed with the grim regularity of a man checking for his own pulse. He laid out the three stolen sheets on the scarred oak table of the scriptorium, their surface pale and tight as the skin of a drum, contrasting sharply with the damp, rotting parchment of his usual work. The candle flame, a thin,...
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