The Wistful Incense
The candle on the silver tray guttered in the draft from the open window, and the High Priest’s shadow stretched long and thin across the linoleum floor, pinning Elias to his chair like a moth to a board. "You think you can read it, Elias?" the Priest asked, his voice dry as the dust that coated the spines of the books stacked to the ceiling. "You think because your hands shake less than they...
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