The Distant Clue
The rain lashed the single pane of glass in Arthur Vane’s study, a rhythmic percussion that matched the frantic tapping of his pen. He was forty years old, and he had not slept in three days. The manuscript on his desk, a translation of the *Codex Umbra*, was the only thing that mattered. It was his life’s work, the definitive interpretation of a medieval dialect so obscure it had eluded...
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