The Distant Joke
The question the Guild never asked, but which I have asked the stone every night for three years, is whether a mason is defined by the walls he builds or the body that holds the trowel. The harvest feast in the tithe barn was a suffocating mass of wool and wet grain, the air thick enough to chew. I stood at the periphery, my lungs tight with the first dry rattle of the sickness that will claim...
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