The Distant Joke
The silver band of the locket caught the light of the chandelier, a sharp, cold point in the middle of Elias Thorne’s vision, and his hand, which had been reaching for a glass of sherry, stopped in mid-air, fingers curled around nothing but the humid, heavy air of the ballroom. He was forty years old, an archivist by trade, a man who spent his days in the cool, silent basement of the county...
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