The Distant Affair
The book was cold, colder than the iron ledger box it had sat in, and the smell of it was not of paper or ink but of old copper, thick and metallic, like a mouthful of blood held back from spitting. You held it in your hands, Elias Thorne, your fingers trembling not from the chill of the Ministry’s basement but from the shock of seeing your own name written in a script that looked less like...
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