The Distant Garden
You will not take it to London. Elias Thorne paused, his hand hovering over the leather strap of his satchel. The room was dim, the only light a sliver of grey dawn cutting through the blinds, illuminating the dust motes that swirled like suspended ash. He looked at the letter in his other hand, the paper thin and brittle, the ink smudged where Silas’s fingers had trembled. It was a small...
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