The Pale Meridian
By Arthur Pendelton
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, sealed with black wax and the crest of a house that had long forgotten its own name.
Thomas Ashwick stood in the kitchen doorway, the paper trembling between his fingers. He was not a man of drama—never had been. A clerk in the Ministry of Revenues, he spent his days counting copper coins and ink-stamping ledgers, his...
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