The Wistful Incense
The banquet hall smells of roasted pheasant and the sharp, metallic tang of the Wistful Incense. You sit at the far end of the long mahogany table, your collar stiff, your stomach empty from the lunch you skipped to pay the grocer. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-four, a junior archivist in the Ministry of Aesthetic Compliance. You want the Senior Curator’s office. You want the salary that will...
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