The Faded Guest
Cut it, Elias. The light is failing, and if the Censor sees the sheen on the skin, he will take the whole arm. Elias Thorne did not look at the knife. He looked at the hand. It was his left hand, the one that had held the quill for the last twelve years, now fused seamlessly into a sheet of coarse, grey vellum. The ink had dried, but the flesh had not; it had merged with the fiber of the paper,...
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