The Faded Root
The ink in the composing room smells of rotting meat and old pennies, a scent that has seeped into the pores of your skin until you cannot tell where your body ends and the trade begins. You are Elara, thirty-two, and your hands, once steady enough to set the finest hairline points for the *Harrowgate Gazette*, now tremble with a palsy that makes the metal letters look like they are swimming....
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews