The Golden Song
The ink on the ledger did not dry, it pooled, a dark and viscous mirror that swallowed the light from the gas lamp and held it there, trembling in the amber oil, while Elias Thorne sat in the silence of the counting house, his fingers stained black to the first knuckle, a stain that had become so permanent in the last three days that the scrubbing with pumice and lye had ceased to be an act of...
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