The Wistful Cipher
The candle gutters in the draft, throwing long, shivering shadows across the oak desk where the ledger of the late Magistrate Vane lies open, its leather spine cracked and smelling of damp earth and old ink. I am Elias Thorne, a junior clerk of thirty-two years in the City of St. Jude, and my hands are trembling so violently that the quill slips from my fingers, scratching a jagged line into...
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