Julian Vance did not take his eyes off the green banknote resting on the bare wood-grain laminate.
The words Dr. Corvo had just read aloud hung in the refrigerated air between the counters.
The face on the clerk belongs to the mirror.
Across the acrylic sneeze-guard, the Actuary of Zero-Hour let out a quiet laugh. The sound came through Julian’s own stolen vocal cords, dry as old paper.
“A clever coroner,” the Actuary said. “He knows how to read small print. But reading the deed does not cancel the title, Julian.
The paper tells the truth: your face does not belong to your skull anymore. It belongs to the glass.”
Beside Register 1, Thomas Vance stepped forward, his tall frame rigid beneath his yellow municipal raincoat.
His large, scarred hand came down onto the wooden register rail with a dull, hollow thud.
