The Distant Clue
Act I Ingeborg Isdahl’s hand shook as she stamped the permit, the ink bleeding into the fiber of the paper with a wet, sucking sound that smelled of iron and old rain. She was forty years old, a rigid enforcer of the new industrial codes in the inner streets of Copenhagen, where the karst-like towers of brick rose from the flood-prone streets like the ribs of a drowned beast. The heatwave had...
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