The Pale Dance
The porcelain cup sat in Arthur’s palm, the handle slick with condensation that felt less like water and more like a thin film of ice, the ceramic already beginning to crack along its rim with a sound so faint it was indistinguishable from the settling of the house’s own bones. It was October of 1904, and Dr. Arthur Vane, a man whose life had been measured in the precise categorization of...
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