The Wistful Ashes
The champagne flutes in the Ministry of Allocation were thin, delicate things that shattered easily if held with too much force, a fact Arthur Vane noted with a grim internal precision as he raised his glass to the ceiling. The room was a sterile white box, windowless and air-conditioned to a chill that bit through his wool suit, but the noise was a physical weight, a roar of clinking glass and...
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