The Golden Visit
The ink had dried before I could wipe the smudge from my thumb, a dark crescent like a bruise on the pale parchment. Master Aldous did not look at the page; he looked at me, his eyes narrow and wet with a contempt that felt heavier than the oak desk between us. "Mud," he said, his voice a dry rasp that seemed to crack the silence of the scriptorium. "You mix mud, Thomas. You do not mix ink. You...
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