The Pale Banner
The paper is wet. That is the first thing I notice. Not the smell of rot, which is strong enough to make my eyes water, but the dampness seeping into the cotton of my sleeve. I am Elias Thorne, and I am forty-five years old, standing in the basement of the Harrowgate Archive at two in the morning. My monograph on the Great Fire of 1898 is due to the publisher in three weeks. My memory is...
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