The Wistful Cipher
The ledger lay open on the heavy oak desk. The ink was dry. Margot had been staring at the column of figures for an hour. The numbers did not add up. They never did. Not here. Not in the Archive of St. Jude’s. The air smelled of dust and old paper, a scent that coated the back of her throat like a film. She adjusted her spectacles. The light from the high window was pale and cold. It did not...
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