The Golden Circuit
14 October 1912 The ink is drying on the final page of the *Golden Circuit*, and I am afraid to breathe. My father, the Abbot, lies in the tower room above the scriptorium, his hand clamped around my wrist with a strength that has no business surviving in a body so frail. His eyes are open, fixed on me with an accusation that burns hotter than the fire in the grate. He sees a thief. I see only...
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