The Distant Threshold
The ledger lay open on the oak desk, its pages thick with the ink of seven years, and Elias Vane held the pen as if it were a scalpel, waiting for the blood to stop. The light in the office of St. Jude’s Asylum was a pale, jaundiced yellow, filtered through glass that had not been cleaned since the war ended. It fell in long, slanting bars across the floorboards, illuminating the dust motes...
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