The Distant Clue
The champagne flute in your hand trembles, not from the cold, but from the sudden, violent absence of weight where the final page of the manuscript should be, and the music of the faculty gala swells into a deafening roar of strings and clinking crystal that seems to vibrate against the very bones of your skull. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and for three years you have lived...
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