The Faded Frontier
The nib of the pen skitters across the ledger paper, leaving a jagged, erratic line that looks less like a number and more like the scratch of a rat under floorboards. You are Arthur Vane, forty years old, a clerk in the textile mill of Blackwood & Sons, and your left hand is betraying you. It trembles, a fine, rapid vibration that has persisted for three days, beginning in the morning and...
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