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St. Mark’s
The church was empty in this last afternoon hour of the day.
Well and good, she thought. Solitude in a public place always was.
Solitude in one’s own home? That was a different experiment altogether.
St. Mark’s had been built only thirty years prior, yet still there lingered the scent of antiquity. For the Kentish ragstone inherently blessed the church with a patina of age, having spent countless eons in pre-measured time. Closing her eyes, she could almost smell the old tombs, reminiscent of the rediscovered places of this world. She missed them—the ruins, the archaeological digs—now that he was gone.
The leather case beside her on the bench was filled with a small portion of the scribbled labyrinth known as her father’s papers—catalogued by the chaos of an aging mind in panic, a fading mind with a full realization that all knowledge was to be sand, all memory dust.
Unless written.
And so he had written; everything he could manage before holding a pen was no longer in his grasp.
Now she was determined to find in this maze of scribbles, notes, details, and footnotes, an order—which would bear up to a rigorous scholarly reclassification, one which would fit lockstep with the aims of the museum.