The Distant Blade
The ledger is short by three hundred pounds, and that is why you are leaving before the sun clears the ridge. Elias Thorne did not look at the man who spoke, nor did he look at the heavy oak table where the ledger lay open, its pages stained with the faint, yellowish ring of old coffee and the sharper, metallic tang of the ink that had recorded his failure. The room smelled of beeswax and damp...
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