The Wistful Cipher
The ledger of the National Archives had forty-three missing entries, a gap in the record that smelled of rot and iron. Elara Vane counted them three times, her fingers tracing the brittle edges of the paper, the gaslight above her flickering in a cold, blue pulse that seemed to breathe against the gloom. She was thirty years old, and her hands, usually steady enough to bind a spine, trembled as...
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