The Faded Portrait
The winter of 1342 arrived in Lyon not as a season, but as a debt to be collected. Thomas Bradshaw, twelve years old and hollowed by hunger, counted the stitches in the lining of the fox mask his father had left behind. There were forty-two, each one a small, sharp bite of thread into the rotting leather. He held the mask against his chest, the fur matted and gray, smelling of damp wool and the...
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