The Wistful Atlas
The letter lay on the mahogany table, its cream paper yellowing at the edges, bearing the wax seal of the Royal Geographical Society, and Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old and a clerk of three years, held it in a hand that trembled not from fear but from the sudden, crushing weight of the leather-bound atlas resting in his other palm. The room was a cacophony of clinking crystal and the low,...
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