Francis placed the quill carefully into the ink, sighing as he watched the dying fire crack and spit. He barely saw the dim glow of the flames. He looked through them at the days ahead: at what needed to be done.
There was a cry from the street outside and Francis flinched, his heart thundering as he stood and peered through the glass.
“What are you doing?”
Francis knew the voice behind him. It purred in refined malice. Rage dissolved to terror as he heard the soldiers file in. The book was still open.
“I’m telling the truth, your worship.”
(c) Tim Austin 2016. Promo image courtesy of Martin Kníže via Uplash.
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