The Pale Letter
Act I Riku Yoshida was forty-five years old, a court physician with a union fund pin still clipped to his lapel, and he smelled of boiled linseed oil before he saw the Emperor’s face. The throne room was a cathedral of pipes and boiler heat, the air heavy with rust and old sweat. I stood at eighty-four of the Bellfounders' Walk, the only address that mattered in this squatters' camp of a...
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