The Pale Bonsai
The ink is not black. It is the color of a bruise three days old, thick and reluctant in the nib. "Is the parchment prepared, Mr. Elias?" The voice comes from the high desk across the hall. It is the voice of the High Magistrate, a sound like dry leaves skittering over stone. I do not look up. I am a scribe. I do not look at the Magistrate until the transaction is complete. My hands are steady,...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen