The Distant Clue
The quill was a raven’s feather, stiff and black, held between Elias Thorne’s thumb and forefinger with a grip that had long since worn the skin raw and translucent. The inkwell sat before him, a small glass jar filled with a liquid so dark it seemed to absorb the lamplight from the desk, a substance that had cost the Crown forty pounds for a single vial, a sum that would have fed a laboring...
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