The Golden Suspect

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2026-08-18 21:08:25 -

The bread was stale. It had been baked three days prior, in the heat of the midsummer kilns, and now it sat in the cold stone larder of the manor house, hard as the knuckles of the dead. Silas did not eat it. He held a slice in his hand, turning it over and over, examining the fracture lines, the dense crumb, the dust of flour that clung to the crust like a shroud. He was a baker. He knew the...

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