The Distant Metropolis
The ink was drying in the grooves of the great oak table when Julian first saw the face in the varnish. It was a Tuesday, rain lashing against the leaded windows of the archive room, a grey and relentless drumming that seemed to vibrate in his teeth. He had been there for three hours, hunched over the genealogical records of the Blackwood estate, his spine aching with a dull, persistent throb....
0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews