The Golden Harbor
The water was rising again, Mateo, and it had not stopped since we spoke of the debt. Dolores Molina wiped the saffron from her wrists with a rag that was already stiff with old muck, her eyes fixed on the line of gold where the harbor met the stone of the lower workshop. She had spent forty years mastering the chemistry of color, learning how to coax blue from indigo and red from madder, but...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews