The Golden Mirror
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a fine, cold mist that settled into the pores of the skin and the fabric of the coats, turning the cobblestones of the old quarter into a slick, dark mirror that reflected the gas lamps in shivering, broken streaks of amber. I stood at the head of the long, oak-paneled table in the Great Hall of the St. Jude’s Orphanage, the silence of the...
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