You have broken my heart There, I have written it. Not for you to read, Minna, for this letter will never be sent, never shrink and wither under your laughter, little lips prim and pleated, laughter like dulcimer music . . .
Shall I tell you...
The Fourteenth Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew
It is ten years since the Black Death reaped its harvest at Cambridge. Now, in the stifling summer of 1357, an even more sinister visitor is at large. He claims that when the plague comes...