The Distant Promise
The ink on my hands will not wash out, a fact I now know with the certainty of a frozen river. I remember the smell of the dissenters' meeting house, where the air hung heavy with damp wool and the specific, metallic tang of fear. It was there, in the dim light of a single oil lamp, that I first saw the marks on Kuznetsov’s neck. He was my captain, a man who had sworn to protect the court, yet...
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