The Wistful Cipher
The rain in Edinburgh did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime more visible, a slick, black varnish over the city’s stone bones. Julian Vane stood on the platform at Waverley, watching the steam swirl around the head of the northbound train, his breath a small, white ghost escaping his lips. He was a man composed of sharp angles and quiet desperation, a linguist whose mind moved with...
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