The Faded Alibi
The ink was wrong, you would tell him later, though you could not say how you knew it was wrong before the first letter had even touched the vellum. It was too thick, too dark, a viscous black that did not spread but pooled, a heavy sludge that smelled not of iron and gall but of wet earth and rot. You sat in the scriptorium, the air thick with the dust of ground oak gall and the faint, sweet...
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