The Golden Visit
The golden light of late August filtered through the stained glass of St. Jude's chapel, casting fractured rubies and amethysts across the wooden pews. Eleanor Vane sat in the third row, her fingers tracing the grain of the oak bench as if reading braille left by someone long dead. She had not intended to come here tonight—had not intended to come to London at all, to this city of ghosts and...
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