The Distant Wound
Could a garment truly bleed? The question hung in the humid air of the plantation school, where the steam from the laundry vats rose in thick, white ribbons that smelled of lye and rot. Delphine Ortego sat at the long table, her fingers twitching beneath the linen tablecloth, her eyes fixed not on the stew but on the High Inquisitor, M. Devereaux, who wore the Vestment, a heavy cloak of...
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