The Distant Legend
The dampness in the basement of the old Parliament building did not smell of mold, but of wet iron and old paper, a scent that had settled into Arthur Vane’s lungs like a second, colder breath. He was thirty years old, a junior clerk in the Ministry of Works, and his hands were trembling as he held the leather-bound ledger he had pried from a loose brick in the wall. It was a Tuesday in...
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