The Faded Dust
The quill slipped, leaving a streak of crimson across the vellum that did not dry but seemed to throb against the grain, and I pulled my hand back as if burned by the heat radiating from the wet pigment. My fingers, stiff and trembling with the palsy that had crept into my joints over the last winter, could no longer hold the weight of the nib, yet the Abbot’s shadow fell across my desk, heavy...
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