The Golden Maze
The ink was already bleeding into the grain of the parchment when I first noticed the stain, a dark, viscous bloom that spread across the signature line of Arthur Penhaligon’s will with the slow, deliberate patience of a bruise forming under skin. I stood in the center of the High Chancery, a cavernous hall of black marble and iron girders that smelled perpetually of wet stone and old dust, and...
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