The Distant Affair
The ink was not black, but the deep, arterial red of a wound that refuses to clot. Margaret Holloway held the quill, her hand trembling not with fear, but with the terrifying lightness of a feather caught in a gale. In the city of Vesper, where the sky was a bruised purple and the streets were paved with glass that sang underfoot, she was a stranger. She had crossed the Veil three days ago,...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση