Angela Slatter

Ink and Fur

The tip of the quill scratches its way across the parchment, a sound that sets my teeth on edge.

One might think I’d be used to it by now. The black marks it leaves in its wake make no sense to me—indeed the entire book makes no sense—then again, I am a mere copyist and mine’s not to question why. Although I do.

Frequently.

Much to my father’s despair.

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