The Distant Whispers
The ledger on Arthur Vane’s desk held exactly forty-two hours of unpaid labor, a number that weighed against his temples with the dull, persistent ache of a migraine that had settled in Manchester’s damp air long before he had arrived to count it. He was a man who measured his life in syllables and salaries, and both were currently failing him, the former by becoming illegible and the latter by...
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