The Wistful Skyline
"Stop touching the parchment, Arthur. Your hands are shaking." I looked down at the 17th-century land deed spread across the oak table, the ink glistening under the gaslight like wet mud. Elias, my junior clerk, stood by the door, his face pale and drawn in the way it had been for the last three days, his fingers curled into fists against his coat. I had been staring at the document for an...
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