The Faded Paradox
The owl was cold, colder than the air in the actuary’s office should have allowed, and it hummed against Arthur Vane’s palm like a trapped fly. It was a small thing, glazed in a dull, cracked white, with one eye chipped away to reveal the raw clay beneath. Arthur held it tightly, his knuckles whitening against the porcelain, while outside the window the rain lashed the brickwork of the...
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