The Wistful Mirror
The rain lashed against the high, arched windows of the Customs House, a rhythmic drumming that seemed to mock the stillness of the Grand Auditor’s office. Arthur Vane stood before the mahogany desk, his knuckles white as he gripped the lapels of his father’s old velvet waistcoat, the fabric worn thin and fraying at the seams, a relic of a man who had died with his hands stained by ink and...
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