The Faded Alibi
In the mist-bound valley of the Highlands, a man’s worth is often measured by the precision of his cut. Calum Kirkwood, forty-two of NineElm Crossing, stood before the mirror in his rented shop, the air heavy with cold lather and the damp wool of a coat that did not quite fit the shoulders beneath it. He was a barber, not a seal-carver, yet the magistrate’s commission had turned his chair into...
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