A Scent of Marmalade

Hawthorn had nodded off. The book on his knee, a treatise on early Prolish cave markings, had acted as an effective sedative. Between it and the pressing warmth of the fire, the scholar was 
lolling in his armchair.

Outside the hotel suite, bloated snowflakes were making an attempt at battering in the windows. Through the dark and pelting snow showed the crook-chimneyed skyline of Fortenshire. Distantly, the bells of Carigan Tower struck midnight. Hawthorn snored.

There was a bang, a muttered curse, another wooden bang. Hawthorn snorted, startled.

This exclusive post is continued on Patreon. It's going to redirect. If you're your still reading this, either you've paused page loading or the thing is busted. 


Chief Producer of Typos at Incunabuli.com.

No comments:

Post a Comment