The Faded Masquerade
The first sack of lime weighs forty pounds, and by the time you have hauled it up the twelve steps to the Great Hall’s upper gallery, your shoulders are screaming a low, dull note that sits just behind your ears. You set it down, the rough burlap scratching against the stone floor, and check the tally in your ledger: three sacks, two buckets of pigment, one hour of silence before the night...
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