The Golden Visit
I counted the drops of blood falling into the inkwell, one for every line of the psalm I had failed to finish. The liquid was thick, dark, and smelled of iron and old stone, pooling in the silver dish with a viscosity that defied the light. By the time the vial was half-empty, the lamp oil was nearly spent, and the shadow of the scriptorium’s high window had stretched across the floor like a...
0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare