The Distant Blade
The train rattled over the iron bridges, a sound like dry bones clicking together in the dark, and Elias sat with his hands folded tightly in his lap, watching the gray fields blur past the glass. He was returning to Harrowgate, a place that smelled of wet wool and old paper, to finish the work he had begun twenty years ago. The luggage tag on his suitcase read Dr. E. Vane, Scholar of Rhetoric,...
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