The Wistful Incense
The letter lay on the floorboards, its edges curling in the damp. It was a notice of seizure, printed on heavy cream stock that cost more than a laborer’s weekly wage. Grace Trenchard picked it up. The paper was cold. She looked at the signature at the bottom, the elegant loop of a pen that had never touched a rough surface. She looked at the attic window, where the gray sky pressed against the...
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