The Wistful Petal
Chapter One In Melbourne, the gaslight did not so much illuminate the terrace rows as it negotiated a truce with the dark. Carl Roudebush stood in the scriptorium of the old mining lodge, the air heavy with ozone and old paper, watching the ink pool on the vellum. He was thirty, a scholar of no small renown, though the town knew him only as the man who worked too hard. The manuscript before him...
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