The Distant Blade
Thorne, you’re late, and the light is already failing. The director’s voice cut through the hum of the gas lamps in the boardroom, sharp as a scalpel. Elias Thorne stood by the window, his hand white-knuckled around the handle of the heavy oak door. Outside, the smoke from the cotton mills in Salford hung low, a thick grey blanket that swallowed the stars and the moon. Inside, the air smelled...
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