The Pale Letter
The shard is cold. It sits in your palm, a sliver of bone-white ceramic, smooth as river glass but heavy as lead. You turn it over. The glaze is cracked, a web of hairline fractures that seem to pulse under your thumb. You are Elias Thorne, Constable of Oakhaven, and you have just pulled this piece from the cellar floor of the Mayor’s house. The cellar smells of damp earth and stale tobacco....
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