The short fiction of j hardy carroll
The priest walks around the cluttered work table, drags a finger down its surface and holds it up for inspection. He scowls and wipes it on his cassock, walks slowly up the stairs to the kitchen. He stands before her, hands clasped behind him. “Listen, daughter. I came to speak to your husband about his reputation. I do…
He bought a basket of new plums, ate them while he watched the girl exchange pleasantries with the miller. He was struck by her beauty, her freshness. “Who was that maid?” he asked the miller after she had gone. “That’s no maid, sir. She’s the daughter of Florent the silk merchant.” “Is this Florent a member of the guild?” “A…