The Distant Affair
The matchstick flares, a brief, violent star against the gloom of the restricted stacks, and you watch the flame catch the edge of the brittle page with a hiss that sounds uncomfortably like a human sigh. You are Elias Thorne, fifty-two years old, and you are burning the legacy of Arthur Vane. The room is cold, the kind of damp chill that settles into the joints and stays there, but your hands...
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