The Pale Verdict
Vane. The clerk’s voice cut through the low hum of the assay office, sharp and final. Arthur Vane looked up from the balance scale, his hands still resting on the brass pan. He did not move. The clock on the wall ticked, a steady, mechanical heartbeat that marked the seconds of his remaining authority. He was forty years old. He had worked in the Mint for twenty-two years. His fingers were...
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