The Pale Fracture
The logbook is missing three days, Elias Thorne said, tapping the leather cover with a fingernail stained by iron-gall ink. I looked up from the cataloging table, my hand still hovering over the brass calipers, and felt the cold seep through the soles of my boots. The Ministry of Continuity smelled of damp limestone and the sharp, metallic tang of the preservation chemicals we used to stabilize...
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