The Wistful Cipher
The invoice for the structural audit was due by Friday, or the pension board would flag the account as delinquent. Arthur Vane adjusted his collar, the wool chafing against his neck, and stared at the damp brickwork of Blackwood Asylum. He was forty years old, and his knees ached with a dull, persistent cold that no amount of exertion could drive out. The building loomed before him, a monolith...
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