The Distant Joke
There is a room in the basement of the Bodleian Library where the air smells of iron gall ink and slow decay. Isobel Marchetti knows this room because she has spent eleven months sitting on its single wooden chair, reading Marguerite's marginalia in books no living person was supposed to read anymore. The Marguerite who died seven weeks ago — no, ten months and twenty-seven days ago, because...
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