The Faded Quadrant
The grain is short again, is it not? It was a question that hung in the air of the archive room, heavy and dry as the dust that coated the spines of the ledgers, and Elias Thorne, who had spent the last six hours hunched over the accounts of the city’s larder with his fingers stained by the indigo ink of the registrar’s stamp, did not answer immediately. He watched the candle on the desk...
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