Brother Aldric

Brother Aldric copies holy texts by day and complains in their margins by night, which is where he does his finest work. Pious, damp, and quietly furious, he is the patron saint of everyone who has ever held a grievance and had nowhere to put it.

Marginalia collects his notes from the edges of the sacred: on labour, on weather, on his superiors, and on the apocalypse, which around here is a Tuesday.

“The abbot says the plague is a judgement on our sins. I have reviewed my sins. They are modest.”

“It has rained for the length of a psalm. I have begun to suspect the psalm.”