The Golden Fox's Tithe
The rope descended into the dark like a thread offered by a spider. Henry stood at the mouth of the shaft and looked down. Sixty feet of Yorkshire stone, swallowed by shadow. The seven of them had prepared for this—the ropes braided from hemp, the lanterns packed in oilcloth, the iron pitons hammered into the rock face at dawn. Arthur was not there. Arthur was at home, having just brought their...
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