The Wistful Incense
The alabaster censer in your hands is warm, a temperature that defies the November chill of the inquisitor’s office, and it hums against your palm with a low, resonant vibration that feels less like sound and more like a pressure against the bone. You are Elias, a clerk of forty years, and your only desire is to keep the fever from settling into the skin of your son, Thomas, who lies in the...
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