The Wistful Incense
The fog in Oakhaven does not lift; it merely thins enough to let you see the rot in the wood. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, a constable with twenty years of service and a pension that is three years from being safe, provided you can keep your hands clean and your reports accurate. You stand in the nave of the St. Jude’s Chapel, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and something else,...
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