The Distant Crown
The porcelain bowl sat on the center table, a white eye staring up at the low, soot-streaked ceiling of the living room, waiting for a crack that had already formed in the silence of the house. Arthur Vane stood before it, his hands clasped behind his back, his knuckles white against the dark wool of his waistcoat, and he watched the thin line of fracture that ran from the rim to the base like...
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