The Pale Protocol
March 12, 1912. "Thomas, get out of my sight before the frost spreads further." Mr. Halloway’s voice did not rise; it simply dropped, heavy and cold, like a sack of grain hitting the floorboards. I stood in the doorway of his study, my hand still resting on the oak frame, feeling the wood’s damp chill seep into my palm. I am forty-two years old, a junior archivist at the Blackwood Estate, and I...
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