The Wistful Incense
Chapter One I remember the smell of the steward’s hands before I remembered his name, a cloying, metallic sweetness that clung to the air like damp wool. I am Vijay Menon, and I have spent thirty-two years listening to the dead through the skin of the living, a trade that pays in fear rather than gold. The apothecary’s debt of twelve coins was a noose around my neck, and the Duke’s payment was...
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