The Wistful Cipher
The scales in the Ministry’s basement room were brass, green with verdigris, and calibrated to a precision that Elias Vane found personally offensive, as if the weight of a soul could be measured in grams of lead shot and counterbalanced by the bureaucratic inertia of the state. He had counted the seconds since the door locked behind him, one through two hundred and forty, a number that felt...
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