The Distant Affair
The letter lay on the table, its edges soft and frayed from the damp air of the carriage, and Elias Thorne read the final line for the third time before folding it into his coat pocket. The ink was faded, a bruised purple, and the signature of the Abbot of St. Jude was a scrawl that looked less like a name and more like a scratch of a nail across wood. He had been traveling for two days, the...
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