Death of a Doll Maker

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“What a hell hole!” Oil lamp held high, he surveyed the nearly empty room one last time. “May the next governor choke on it!”

His art collection was gone, and so were his carved and lacquered desk and the jade writing set. He had packed up all his treasures. Now the room contained little but a few mats and cushions and the ordinary desk that had been in storage. Let his successor gather his own wealth.

Outside, a horse whinnied, anxious to be gone. He, too, was eager to end it. Nearly three years of having to contend with fools and men he despised. Never mind. It had been profitable, so profitable the government in the capital had taken notice and issued the recall.

As if they weren’t greedy bastards all.

But they knew that he knew their venal sins, and that would protect him and get him another good assignment. He smiled. The hard work had paid off. Life was finally beginning for him. With a contented sigh, he blew out the flame, set the lamp on the floor, and walked out.

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