“In his lifetime, a man can count true friends on the fingers of one hand,” his father told Begiloc, and since destiny granted him longer life than Gerens, he knew this to be true. Fate decreed much time should be spent far from Father Robyn, yet their easeful companionship renewed whenever they met. He basked in anticipation of the pleasure his reappearance would enkindle since their subdued parting, neither expecting to see the other again.
A monk directed him to where the frate pergamentarius reigned over a world of parchment, whipped egg whites and powdered chalk. The production of vellum, the cleaning, bleaching, stretching on the herse, scraping with the lunarium and abrading fascinated Begiloc, but less than the argument flaring between the priest and the monk when he entered the r
