The Wistful Incense
The air in the study did not smell of dust, as one might expect in a room where time had been allowed to pool and stagnate, but rather of ozone and the sharp, metallic tang of a storm that had not yet broken through the slate roof, a scent that seemed to hang in the very fibers of the heavy velvet drapes which had not been drawn back since the autumn of his youth. Elias Thorne sat in the...
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