The Distant Clue
The ink had not yet dried on the final clause of the confession, a viscous black smear that seemed to pulse against the white vellum like a bruise on the skin of the world, when I realized that the object in my hand was not merely a key but the very mechanism of my own unraveling. I sat in the study of Lord Harrowgate, a room suffocatingly dense with the scent of old paper and the heavy,...
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