The Faded Alibi
The ink was still wet when the door burst open. Elias did not look up from his desk, his quill suspended over the parchment where he had just written the final argument for the efficacy of boiled water in preventing the spread of the sickness. The man who entered was not the Chancellor, nor was he the deacon who usually collected the tithes for the university library. He was Inquisitor Thorne,...
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