The Wistful Petal
The ledger showed forty-three days since the last drop of rain. Margaret counted the dry cracks in the courtyard stones, matching them to the entries in the Duke’s archive, her fingers stained with the iron-gall ink that smelled of rust and old blood. She was a scribe, a keeper of records, and her hands were steady enough to bind a kingdom’s debts, but they trembled now as she transcribed the...
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