The Wistful Skyline
The shrapnel did not sing; it whispered, a dry, metallic rattle against the cobblestones of the Rue de la Paix, before embedding itself in the flank of the grey sedan. Arthur Penhaligon did not flinch. He sat in the back, his hands resting on his knees, fingers interlaced with the rigid precision of a man who had spent thirty years aligning ledgers. He was not a soldier, though the war had...
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