The Wistful Incense
The boy’s name was Elias, and he was called by the weight of it, not the sound. "Boy," the Minister said, his voice dry as old parchment. "The ink is not drying." Elias looked down at his hands. The quill had slipped from his grip, the nib stained black to the second joint of his thumb. The paper before him was a fresh sheet of the Ministry’s proprietary rag-stock, smooth and pale as a winter...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen