The rain beats hard against the thatch of my roof at Sant’Andrea, a steady drumming that matches the rhythm of my thoughts as I sit by the dying fire. My hand rests on the inkwell, heavy with the weight of what I write for those who might one day read this from their own towers. Outside, the wind carries the scent of wet earth and woodsmoke, but inside there is…
“Such stand simply elevated upon the goodwill and the fortune of him who has elevated them—two most inconstant and unstable things.”