The Pale Tower
The letter lay on the desk, the ink still wet, the signature of Julian Vane sprawling across the bottom like a crack in dry earth. Eleanor Fairchild smoothed the paper with a hand that did not quite obey her will, the tremor in her fingers a faint, persistent vibration that she had spent the last three months hiding beneath the cuff of her wool sleeve. She was forty-two, a senior archivist, and...
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