The Distant Garden
My hands were already stained with soot and the chalk dust of the catalog when the fog swallowed the ferry, its engines groaning at slack like a dying animal. I was halfway through the inventory of the estate’s library, a crumbling medievalist’s dream I had secured to prove my worth to Dr. Vane, but my lungs were already aching, a dry rattle that signaled the disease taking hold. The fog was...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews