The Distant Promise
The gas lamps in the basement of Thorne & Sons Textile Mills hissed with a dry, metallic rattle, casting long, trembling shadows against the walls of ledgers that stretched into the darkness like the ribs of some buried leviathan. I, Arthur Penhaligon, forty-two years old and the sole heir to the firm’s vast and rotting empire, had been cataloging the final accounts of Elias Thorne for three...
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