The Wistful Incense
The rain had been falling for three days, a gray and persistent sheet that turned the world into a watercolor painting left out in the damp. Elias Vane walked up the long, gravel drive of the house on Hollow Hill, his boots heavy with mud. He was a man who dealt in things that did not age, specifically, in the preservation of scent. His workshop was a cathedral of jars and vials, a place where...
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