The hand was already packed in the satchel, wrapped in oilcloth and tied with a fraying rope. It was not a whole hand, but the left, severed at the wrist, the skin pale and waxy as paraffin, the fingers curled in a permanent, silent plea. Thomas Bradshaw held the satchel against his chest, feeling the cold weight of it through the wool of his doublet. He stood at the gate of the King’s Hall,...
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