The Faded Alibi
The archive smelled of mildew and dried lavender, a scent that had settled into the very grain of the oak shelves where the ledgers of the Order of the Silver Spoon were kept, books bound in leather so old it had turned the color of dried blood. Thomas Bradshaw, the Archivist, sat in his high-backed chair, the light from the single oil lamp casting long, trembling shadows that danced like...
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