The Wistful Dinner
Chapter One "You will pay the debt with your blood or your hand, Elvira, and I do not care which." Father Benedetto’s voice cracked like a dry branch, cutting through the damp air of the scriptorium where the smell of rotting oak and fresh gall ink hung heavy. I sat at the low table, my fingers stained black to the wrist, the quill trembling in my grip as the cold seeped through the stone floor...
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