The Faded Alibi
The wind did not blow; it scoured. It stripped the color from the heather and the breath from the lungs of the three men huddled against the sheer face of the Crag. Thomas Vane, the junior surveyor, pressed his face into the wool of his collar, watching the sleet turn the world into a white, featureless void. He was twenty-two, with hands that shook not from cold but from the specific, grinding...
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