The Golden Circuit
The ink in the well is black as the blood that will soon stain the sheets of my mother’s pillow, and I write this entry on the fourteenth of October, 1348, by the guttering light of a tallow candle that burns with a sullen, oily reluctance, as if the very wax knows it is fuel for a final, desperate act of preservation. I am Elias Thorne, scribe of the Abbey of St. Jude, a man of thirty-two...
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