The Distant Threshold
The ink cost four silver pence a bottle, and the parchment, if it was good, cost a shilling a sheet. Elias counted the sheets on his desk. One hundred and twelve. Enough to finish the Great Ledger before the winter solstice. If the rot did not eat them first. He dipped his quill. The nib was stiff, worn down to a point that split the air with a dry hiss. He wrote the date. December first. The...
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