The Distant Machine
The ink is still wet when I sign this, Lord Ashworth. It dries with a tackiness that reminds me of the residue left on my fingers after handling the uncoined bullion, a sticky, metallic film that no amount of lye soap can fully scour away. I am writing to you not as a subordinate, but as a man who has spent three years tracing the ghostly fingerprints of your department’s most lucrative fraud....
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