The Distant Nightmare
The leather binding of the ledger was cracked, the spine held together by a strip of waxed twine that Thomas Bradshaw kept tightening with his thumb as he wrote. The ink was still wet, a dark smear on the vellum, recording the purchase of three bushels of barley and the debt owed to the miller for the grinding. Outside the high, narrow window of the scriptorium, the wind in the old elms sounded...
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