The Wistful Incense
The quill in your hand is stiff, the nib bent slightly to the left from years of scratching out the names of the dead and the debts of the living. You hold it over the page, the inkwell sitting beside it like a black eye, and you wait for Mr. Gable to stop looking at you with that particular kind of pity that costs nothing but ruins everything. The air in the scribe’s room is thick with the...
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