The Golden Mirror
The fire did not begin with a spark, but with a scream that tore through the night air like a rip in silk, and by the time the first orange tongue licked the thatch of the Miller’s cottage, young Thomas Ashworth was already running, his bare feet slapping against the cold, wet mud of the path that wound down from the village to the river. He was twelve years old, small for his age, with hair...
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