The Wistful Incense
The ink is too red, Brother Anselm said, his voice a dry rasp that scraped against the stone walls of the scriptorium. It looks like fresh blood, not the gall and oak-gum mixture we have used for three centuries. Elara did not look up from her quill, her fingers stained a deep, arterial crimson up to the second knuckle, the texture of the vellum gritty under her touch like dried mud. It is the...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen