The Wistful Crossroads
The rain in Harrowgate did not fall so much as it accumulated, a slow, gray sediment that coated the windows of the Municipal Institute of Anomalous Studies in a film of dampness. Inside, the air was still and tasted of ozone and old paper. Silas Vane stood before the Great Hall, a room designed to hold the weight of the city’s secrets, its vaulted ceiling supported by pillars of polished...
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