The Pale Tower
The ink on the ledger was still wet when Silas pointed at the signature line. I stood in the office of Harrow & Vane, the air thick with the scent of stale tobacco and machine oil that clung to my father’s wool coat, a garment so heavy it seemed to have grown into my shoulders over the last five years. I was thirty-two, and I had come to this basement office in 1904 for one specific purpose: to...
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