The Wistful Incense
Thorne. The voice came from the shadows of the upper gallery, dry and papery, like the sound of a page turning in an empty room. Elias looked up from his work, his neck stiff, his hands trembling over the ceramic vessel. He knew who it was. Director Vane did not shout; he simply projected his displeasure down the spiral staircase until it landed on Elias’s desk with the weight of a gavel. Elias...
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