The Wistful Witness
The rain that had persisted for three days over the grey slate roofs of the Sterling Institute did not wash the dust from Elias Thorne’s coat, but it did soften the dry, brittle air of the archive, making the scent of old paper and iron-gall ink hang heavy and cloying in the narrow corridors where he had been working for six weeks, a period that felt less like a span of time and more like a...
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