The Distant Machine
The letter lay on the table, the ink still damp in the center where the quill had rested, a dark pool reflecting the single candle that burned low in the iron sconce. Elias Thorne did not look at it. He looked at the door. The wood was heavy, oak, banded with iron, and it had not opened for anyone in three days. Not for the baker, not for the physician who had finally admitted his hands were...
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