The Wistful Show
Chapter One "Put the ink away, Pensri. You are shaking the table." I wiped my hand on my sleeve, the dampness of the archive seeping into the wool. The candlelight flickered, casting long shadows that looked like the legs of dead men. I was thirty years old, and I felt the weight of every year in my knees. The King had sent for me. He said the lotus seeds were a curse. He said I had planted...
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