The Distant Machine
The ink on the parchment was still wet, glistening in the grey, slanting light of the carriage window, as if the words themselves were bleeding from the pen he had held so tightly that his knuckles had turned the color of old bone. Sir Julian Ashworth sat in the corner of the mail coach, a leather-bound journal resting on his knee, the cover cracked and worn by years of service and silence....
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