The Pale Letter
The letter arrived on a Tuesday in November, the paper so pale it seemed to bleed into the grey light of Arthur Penhaligon’s cramped office in Whitechapel. It was sealed with wax the color of dried blood, a jarring contrast to the mundane pile of ledger discrepancies that constituted his daily existence, and when he broke the seal, the handwriting of his sister Elara, once so precise and...
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