The Golden Suspect
The feast in the scriptorium of the Abbey of St. Jude was not a celebration of joy, but a grim ritual of endurance, where the air hung heavy with the cloying, sweet rot of lilies that had been placed in the stone alcoves to mask the deeper, metallic scent of decay that had settled into the very mortar of the walls. Brother Thomas, a man of fifty years whose face was mapped with the deep, weary...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews