The Pale Letter
The toast was to the Minister’s health, or so the raised glasses implied, though Elias Thorne heard only the clink of crystal against crystal, a sharp, brittle sound that vibrated in the marrow of his right hand. He stood by the pillar, watching the light from the chandelier fracture across the table, a jagged starburst that danced over the white tablecloth and the faces of men who had not...
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