The Pale Shadows
The sapphire crystal sat on the jeweler’s loupe, a perfect, cold eye staring up at Arthur Vane, and the air in the workshop had begun to curdle. It was November, 1912, and the rain in London did not wash things clean; it merely pressed the grime of the city deeper into the pores of the stone and the skin. Arthur, thirty years old and hollowed out by the weight of his debts, leaned over the...
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