The Wistful Asylum
The summons came from the top of the grand staircase, a voice like gravel grinding in a tin can. "Mr. Thorne. The Board requires your presence." Elias Thorne, a clerk of thirty years and rigid posture, smoothed the front of his waistcoat. He was in the lobby of the Blackwood Asylum, a structure of grey stone and black iron that had opened that very afternoon. The air inside was thick, not with...
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