The Distant Affair
The porcelain tile was warm, not with the residual heat of a kiln, but with a low, oscillating hum that vibrated against the pads of Elias Thorne’s fingers like a trapped insect. He stood in the center of the Hall of Mirrors, the gilded surfaces reflecting his own face back at him in a dozen fractured, slightly wrong angles, and he felt the cold seep into the soles of his boots, a dampness that...
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