The Wistful Incense
You are holding the glove. It is not a fine thing, not in the way the silk gloves of the court ladies are fine, smelling of lavender and the faint, sweet rot of power. This is a thing of leather and thread, of sweat and the gritty dust of the cobblestones. It is brown, once it was black, and now it is the color of dried blood, worn thin at the fingertips where the fingers of the man who wore it...
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