The Faded Frequency
The letter was stained with blood, or perhaps rust; the distinction had blurred in the damp cellar where Marguerite had hidden for three days. It was the forty-second day of the siege, and the air in the vault tasted of copper and old stone. She held the parchment with trembling hands, her fingers stained dark from the ink she had mixed herself from soot and gum arabic. Outside, the drums of...
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