The Pale Circus
The glass orb sat upon the mahogany desk, a perfect sphere of blown crystal that held the entire winter sky within its curved surface, a frozen tempest of silver and grey that had not moved since the year of the Great Freeze. Elias Thorne, who had once been a master of such delicate illusions in the gaslit parlors of London, now scrubbed the dust from the floorboards of the Pemberton estate...
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