The Distant Journey
The morning light in the Senate dining hall did not so much illuminate the room as it suspended the dust motes in a golden, stagnant haze that smelled of beeswax and old paper, and Elias Thorne stood by the window, watching the ivy creep up the limestone facade of the Capitol, his fingers resting lightly on the spine of the leather-bound volume that sat on the marble ledge beside him, a volume...
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