The Distant Clue
The cough began on a Tuesday, a wet, rattling sound that shook the small frame of Thomas Vane. It was November in Ashford, a city where the soot from the ironworks settled into the lungs of the living and the stones of the dead alike. Elara Vane, thirty years old and a widow of two years, sat by the cot in their drafty parlor, watching her son’s chest heave under a thin wool blanket. The air in...
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