The Wistful Incense
The ledger had forty-two errors. I counted them twice, the first time by day, the second by the guttering light of my desk lamp, the glass globe cold to the touch. My fingers were numb from the cold that seeped through the floorboards of the Ministry, a chill that no amount of wool could quite banish. I was thirty-two years old, and I had seven days left before the winter solstice, the...
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