The Faded Alibi
The banquet hall of the Blackwood Palace smelled of roasted pheasant and the metallic tang of ozone, a scent that Elias Thorne had grown accustomed to over his twenty years of service as the Duke’s chief archivist, a role that required a man to be invisible, precise, and utterly without sentiment. He stood in the shadows near the heavy oak doors, watching the Duke of Ashworth raise a glass of...
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