The Pale Meridian
The ink did not dry. That was the first wrong thing. Elias sat at his desk in the study, the rain hammering against the leaded glass windows of the library, a rhythmic, violent drumming that seemed to shake the very foundations of the house. He held the quill, the nib trembling slightly in his hand, watching the black liquid pool and spread on the parchment like a bruise forming under the skin....
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen