The Golden Farce
The rain in London did not fall; it hung. It was a grey, industrial mist that settled into the pores of the skin and the rust of the iron railings, blurring the line between the street and the sky. In the basement of a solicitor’s office on Chancery Lane, Elara Vance sat with her back against the cold brick wall, her fingers stained not with ink, but with the dark, viscous sap of the ivy that...
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