The Pale Meridian
The rain in Birmingham did not wash the city clean; it merely made the grime slicker, turning the soot on the windowpane of Arthur Vane’s office into a dark, weeping mirror that reflected his own hollowed face. He was thirty years old, though the gray at his temples suggested a man who had aged a decade in the last three years of service at the Ironclad Mint, and he sat before the Ghost Ledger...
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