The Wistful Letter
The quill is stiff, the tip bent like a broken fingernail, scratching against the heavy cream paper of the letter I am drafting to Magistrate Hale. My hand trembles, not from the cold seeping through the floorboards of my cottage, but from the sheer, physical weight of the accusation pressing against my ribs. I have served Oakhaven for six years, a constable’s wage of four shillings a week,...
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