I must be brief.
A bright shadow of hope hangs over our dungeon.
We dare to believe that release may be at hand.
As I write, barely a moment has passed since the last block of stone broke free beneath the stroke of my chisel. I was tapping away at Dee’s side when the brick suddenly shifted, slipped, and grated in the slot. Clumps of mortar crumbled and fell. A tiny hole opened. A breath of cold air reached us from the other side of the wall. And then—most wonderful of all—we heard music!
“The angels!” cried Dee, falling to his knees and pressing his ear to the opening. I saw his face wet with tears. I saw his crinkly old eyes wide with child-like wonder. “The blessed angels have come back to speak with me again! Who else could raise such a glorious strain?”
I dropped my tool. I rushed to record his words. I have committed them to paper. But I dare not linger here while the job at the wall remains unfinished.
Even as I write, my companion calls …
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