The Wistful Incense
The signature needs to be wet, Mr. Thorne. That is the only rule that matters in Oakhaven, and you have arrived here with dry hands and a dry pen. Elias Thorne stood in the mud outside the town hall, the fog pressing against his chest like a damp cloth, and he felt the weight of the leather satchel against his hip. Inside it lay the deed to the parcel of land on Miller’s Hill, a plot of dirt he...
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