Dr. Victor Vane's consulting room on Guldengasse Street smelled of camphor and old paper, the way a room smells when it has been used for thinking for a very long time and the thinking has seeped into the walls.
Victor was thirty years old, pale from years spent indoors, with long fingers that trembled slightly when he wasn't writing. He wrote constantly, the way a man breathes, filling page after page with the symptoms of other people's minds. On the wall of his consulting room hung charts and tables, colour-coded and meticulously organised. Each chart tracked a patient's symptoms over time:...
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