The Wistful Atlas
The cellar of the Whitmore estate did not smell of damp or decay, as cellars in the old world were supposed to, but of a thick, cloying sweetness that clung to the back of the throat like tar. Elias Thorne, who had spent the better part of his life in the sterile, humming offices of the Ministry of Antiquities, found the scent unsettling in a way that had nothing to do with hygiene and...
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