The Distant Threshold
The sleet had not ceased since Elias Thorne’s carriage left the station at Harrowgate, a relentless, icy needle that pierced the wool of his coat and bit into the exposed skin of his neck as he climbed the final, steep path toward the Blackwood Asylum. He was thirty-four years old, a man whose profession had long since branded him as a charlatan in the eyes of respectable society, yet here he...
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