The Distant Garden
The paper was thick, cream-colored, and smelled faintly of the tallow used in the scribe’s room, and I held it up to the window where the afternoon light was thinning to a bruised purple, reading the words for the third time because the first two times my hands had been too steady to hold the weight of what they said. It was a letter from the Mayor, Edward Ashworth, and it did not ask; it...
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