The Distant Journey
Thorne, the ledger is incomplete. The voice came from the doorway, dry and brittle as the husk of a dried wheat stalk, and it stopped the scratching of your pen mid-stroke. You did not look up immediately; you finished the line, the ink of the date bleeding slightly into the heavy, cream-colored paper of the St. Jude’s register, before you turned to face Silas Vane. He stood in the archway, his...
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