The Pale Meridian
The letter lay on the mahogany table, its seal broken and the ink still wet, a small black stain spreading like a bruise across the parchment. Elias Vane did not read it immediately; instead, he watched the reflection of the full moon shatter and re-form in the surface of his wine, the liquid trembling with the weight of the banquet’s noise. He was thirty years old, a disgraced court astronomer...
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