The Distant Affair
The leather was warm, which was wrong, for the cellar of the Thorne Tannery sat three feet below the frost line of the London clay, a place where the air tasted of lye, rot, and the heavy, metallic tang of blood that had long since dried into the wood grain. Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old and hollowed out by twelve years of service to a master who had died with his secrets sealed in his...
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