The Wistful Atlas
Thorne, come in here. The summons from the head of the department cut through the low hum of the drafting room, sharp and immediate. Elias Thorne set down his pen, the nib scratching a final, jagged line across the vellum, and walked to the double doors. He was forty years old, a junior clerk at the Royal Geographical Society, and he had spent the last three weeks hunched over the survey of...
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