The Pale Circus
"Is it done?" The voice came from the doorway, sharp as a knife being pulled from a sheath, and I did not look up from the parchment because to look up was to admit that the ink was wet, that the lines were still bleeding into the fiber like a wound that would not close. I was Elias Thorne, a man who had spent forty years measuring the weight of a down stroke, and I knew the weight of the...
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