The Faded Alibi
The bell tower of Saint Jude’s rang not with a sound, but with a silence that had teeth. It hung in the air, a heavy, gray fog that tasted of iron and old blood. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the hall, his hands shaking, holding a small, brass astrolabe. It was warm. It had been warm for three days. He had kept it in his pocket, against his ribs, as if it were a second heart. The crowd...
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