The Faded Root
Chapter One "You’re late again, Harold," the voice said, dry as the husks in the bin. I looked up from the manifest. The ink was still wet, black and glossy against the cheap paper. I had been working since four in the morning, and the cold in the archive room had settled into my joints, a damp thing that refused to leave. The gas lamps hissed in their brass cages, casting a yellow, sickly...
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