The Distant Ghost
Thorne, you are leaving ink on the carpet again, the housekeeper’s voice drifted up the stairs, a thin thread of complaint that dissolved before it reached the library door. Elias Thorne did not look up from the manuscript; he was forty years old, and his hands, once steady enough to transcribe the fragile margins of medieval charters, now trembled with a fatigue that seemed to seep out of the...
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