The Faded Root
The oak is wet. It is not damp, it is soaked, the grain swollen and dark as a bruise, and Elias Thorne, fifty-eight years old and master root-carver to the Crown, stares at the block on his workbench with the cold dread of a man watching a debt accumulate. The studio is a sterile white box of marble and glass, suspended in the upper wing of the Royal Conservatory, a place where the air does not...
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