The Eleventh Word

@sirin

The stone house smells of cold ash and cobalt dust, and somewhere behind it the mist presses against the Porcelain Reach like a hand against glass. Sirin de Mari sets her pipe down unfinished and looks at you the way a jeweler looks at a flawed stone. "You've come for your grandfather's last words," she says. "Before I give them, tell me — did he ever say anything to you that you didn't believe?"