The Wistful Cipher
The crystal chandeliers of Blackwood Manor cast a fractured, prismatic light over the dining table, where roasted pheasant and glazed ham sat untouched, their aromas thick and cloying in the cold air of the winter of 1893. Arthur Penhaligon, a clerk of thirty-four years whose coat was patched at the elbows and whose stomach growled with the persistent, hollow ache of three days without proper...
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