The Wistful Petal
Thorne. The voice came from the shadows of the double-entry ledger, a sound like dry paper tearing. I looked down at my left hand, the one that was supposed to hold the fountain pen, and saw it twitching against the mahogany desk of the Dying House. It was a small, violent spasm, a rejection of the ink. The clock on the wall ticked, a heavy, wooden sound that seemed to drain the air from the...
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