The Distant Summer
The letter was signed with a flourish that cost two shillings in ink and thirty years of dignity. Thomas Vane held the parchment under the weak November light, his fingers stained black to the knuckles, and watched the Magistrate’s seal dry. It was a forgery of such exquisite simplicity that it felt almost like a prayer, a small, paper prayer for a position that would lift him out of the...
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