The Distant Journey
"Put the match out, Hua Sun. The fire is not yours to command." I held the match between my thumb and forefinger, the flame licking the wick with a hungry, sizzling hiss. The air in the archive room was thick with the dust of old paper and the sharper, metallic tang of the ink that bled from the ledger in my other hand. I was thirty-two years old, an archivist of the flood officers’ court, and...
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