The Wistful Witness
The ledger had three hundred and twelve entries, each inked in a hand so steady it betrayed the tremor in your wrist. You counted them again, the nib scratching against the parchment like a dry twig breaking in frost, because in the second year of King Edward’s reign, a court scribe’s life was measured not in years but in the accuracy of his silence. You were thirty, a man of modest ambition...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews