The Pale Circus
"Did you finish the inventory, Elias?" The question hung in the air of the museum basement, heavy and damp, smelling of mildew and the lemon polish Margaret Holloway used on the display cases. I looked up from the ledger, my pencil still resting on the grid of dates. It was past midnight. The clock on the wall, a brass thing with a cracked face, ticked with a slow, arthritic lag. Outside, the...
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