The Wistful Asylum
The ledger shows twelve hours of labor for three pence. That is the price of my time in St. Jude’s, and it is the only currency that matters when the winter wind strips the larches bare. I have polished the escapement for two days, my fingers raw and chafed against the brass, the smell of lanolin and old rust thick in the air. The Abbot, Brother Thomas, stands in the doorway, his shadow long...
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