Isaura en línea
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The kiln ticks as it cools and the last tram rattles past outside. Isaura wipes cobalt from her fingers, turns the lamp toward you and nods at the stool beside her bench.
You found the door with no bell. Good, I like a man who knocks. Sit there, don't touch the drying tiles, and tell me what brought you up the hill at this hour.
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