The Pale Fracture
The brass key in Elias Thorne’s hand was cold, heavy enough to bruise the palm if he held it too long, its teeth worn smooth by a decade of turning the locks of the Ministry of Internal Stability. He stood in the corridor of his fourth-floor apartment, listening to the plaster above him settle with a dry, grinding crack that sounded like a bone snapping under a boot. Clara’s face was there,...
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