The Pale Shadows
The iridescent sheen of the waistcoat caught the gray London light, shimmering with a faint, oily promise that felt less like silk and more like a living membrane against my skin. I adjusted the collar, the fabric cool and unnervingly dry, and looked at Clara, who stood by the window with her arms crossed, her expression a tight mask of concern that I had learned to interpret as a prelude to...
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