The Pale Protocol
The ink on the letter was still wet when Elias Thorne pressed his thumb against it, a dark smear that looked like a bruise. Outside the window of the Registry office, the London fog was thick enough to taste, a grey paste that swallowed the gaslights of Whitehall Street. He sat at his desk, the wooden surface scarred by decades of quills and eraser crumbs, and stared at the nameplate before...
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