The Pale Garden
The nib of the fountain pen scratched against the heavy, cream-colored paper, a sound like a mouse gnawing at a wire. Julian Wickham did not look up. His eyes were fixed on the line of text that had appeared moments before he had dipped the pen, a line of elegant, slanted script that was not his own. It was the hand of Dr. Aris Thorne, dead for six years, and the ink was still wet, glistening...
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