The Faded Alibi
The ink on your fingers has begun to dry, and it does not behave like ink should. You are holding a quill, the nib scratching against the parchment of the ledger, but the black fluid that seeps from your cut knuckle does not bleed or stain the paper; instead, it sits on the surface, thick and viscous, absorbing the candlelight until the flame above you seems to dim in sympathy. Thomas Bradshaw,...
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