「Holy City. Old Document Lane.」
Bellardi squatted at the entrance of his squat little shop, using the last of the daylight to painstakingly repair a Prayer Book whose cover had all but fallen apart.
His fingers were no longer as nimble as they had been thirty-seven years ago. They even trembled slightly—a mark left by long-term alcoholism.
The fine linen shirt that once fit him perfectly now hung loose, its cuffs frayed and worn.
From deep within the alley drifted a foul stench—a mixture of various kinds of filth.
He spat out the saliva he'd been using to moisten the parchment thread and cursed under his breath. It was hard to say whether he was cursing the foul smell or the thread in his hands that he just couldn't seem to straighten.
Thirty-seven years ago, he hadn't been this sorry sight.
Back then, he had just turned twenty and was one of the shrewdest clerks in the eighteenth team of the Sacred Affairs Bureau's Special Asset Disposal Committee.
