The Wistful Atlas
The ink in the pot is cold, but your fingers are warm. You dip the quill, the hair stiff and black, and touch it to the parchment. The line must be straight. It must be precise. You are Thomas, twelve years old, and you are the apprentice to Elias, the town scribe. You want to finish the Great Atlas by winter. You want Elias to look at you with pride, not pity. The plague is in the streets, a...
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