The Distant Garden
Who keeps the accounts of the dead? I ask this because the light in the back room is failing, and the smell of the indigo vats has seeped through the shared wall, turning the air into a bruised purple fog that traps the smoke from the oil lamp. I am Vincenzo Bellini, the overseer of the dye-house, and I am standing before the glass case that holds the right hand of Maestro Salvi. It is not a...
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