The Pale Protocol
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, the ink still wet and smelling faintly of iron and rain, lying upon the mahogany desk of Professor Alistair Thorne like a pale, flapping bird that had fallen from a height it could not have survived, and it was signed by Julian, his brother, the man who had once sworn an oath of silence to the family name but who now, in a script that trembled with a manic,...
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