The Distant Clue
The banquet hall of Sterling Palace smelled of roasted pheasant and stale perfume, a cloying mixture that coated the back of your throat. You stood in the shadows near the service entrance, watching the dignitaries laugh over crystal glasses, their faces illuminated by chandeliers that seemed to drip with gold. You were Elias Thorne, forty-two, a junior archivist whose hands trembled so...
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