The Faded Alibi
Thorne. The name was called out by a server, not with reverence, but with the flat, efficient tone of a man checking a box on a ledger. I turned in the crowded ballroom of the Guildhall, the air thick with the scent of roasted pheasant and expensive perfume, and saw Lord Vane gesturing toward a table near the stage. He was a tall man, his face a mask of polished indifference, wearing a suit of...
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