“The blizzard swarmed around the monastery; the dead could hear it engulf the ancient walls. White noise; wind howling through cracks and spoors and holes. A noise of giants; a noise to fear. Life flickered in its midst, struggled against the cold. There was much which would give in to its bludgeoning force that evening, and so the monks wondered as they lay awake: would any from their number be found that coming morning, propped against a tree in the forest? A covering of snow, begun to drift? ...A knife or scissors or some other pointed implement embedded in the neck? The smile of the contented upon the face? Tunic soaked with blood? All but one. Only one of the monks knew that there would be no body found in the forest; only one knew that this night was not a night for murder. A night for dark deeds; a night for discovery; but not a night for death. As the blizzard raped the Highlands, and ice descended, Death was busy elsewhere. The monk sat in a corner of the library, book in his hand, a small candle burning at his side.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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