The Golden Greenhouse
The ink was still wet. It glistened on the parchment like fresh blood. Or oil. It was hard to tell in the gray light of the cellar. Thomas held the pen. His hand did not shake. He never shook. He was a clerk. He was steady. He was good at keeping records. The symbol was a spiral. It started at the center and wound outward. Tight. Tighter. It looked like a snail shell. It looked like a drain. It...
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