The Faded Attic

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2026-08-19 06:32:02 -

The Faded Attic

The air in the infirmary tasted of copper and wet wool. Marguerite did not blink. Her eyes, pale as river stones, were fixed on the trembling hand of the boy lying on the straw pallet. He was twelve. He was dying. Or so the physician said. The physician was a man named Aldric, with ink stains on his cuffs and a jaw that tightened whenever Marguerite stepped too close to his patients. Marguerite...

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