The Wistful Incense
"The incense is wrong," Elias said. His voice was a dry leaf scraping across stone, soft and brittle, yet it cut through the heavy, humid air of the drawing room with the precision of a blade. He did not look up from the ledger he was keeping, though his fingers hovered over the inkwell, trembling slightly. "It smells of sulfur and regret. You have let it burn down to the very core, Margot. And...
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