The Lace of Memento Mori
I. The landlord's notice had been nailed to the door three days ago. Clara understood, in the way one understands a fever—dimly, without resistance. The room was too small for both her and the rent. She carried the last of her bobbin lace work through the foggy streets of Spitalfields, the bobbins clinking softly against each other like prayer beads. The pieces were nearly finished: a collar...
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