The Distant Clue
The leather journal lay open on the mahogany desk, its spine cracked and weeping a faint, iridescent sheen that caught the gaslight. Arthur Vane stared at the pages, his fingers trembling as they hovered over the ink, which had shifted from a standard black to a bruised, angry violet. He had lied to his father, years ago, about the war; he had lied to the editors about the source of his...
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