The Distant Promise
The ink on the ledger page smeared under Agnieszka Malinowski’s thumb, a black smear that looked like a wound. She stood in the nave of the chapel, the air heavy with damp stone and old rot, her hand trembling not from cold but from the sheer weight of the debt. Outside, the kilns in the old quarter were burning down to their foundations, the heat of the fire pressing against the chapel walls...
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