The Wistful Voyage
The name was not shouted, but it carried the weight of a lead pipe, dropping into the silence of the archive room with a dull, final thud that seemed to settle in Arthur Vane’s molars. Mr. Thorne stood at the threshold of the doorway, his hand resting on the doorframe as if testing its stability, his face a mask of bureaucratic patience that Arthur had come to fear more than any open threat....
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