The Pale Meridian
The ink on Elias Thorne’s left palm was not dry. It sat there, a smear of indigo that matched the fountain pen he held, mirroring the slant of his handwriting with a precision that made his skin itch. He wiped it on his trousers, but the mark remained, a dark bruise of pigment that seemed to seep from the pores rather than sit upon them. In the counting room of Vane & Associates, the air...
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