The Golden Mirror
The ink on the file was still wet when Eleanor Vance sat in the dimly lit office of the Department of Cultural Heritage, the fluorescent lights humming a low, persistent note that seemed to vibrate directly against her temples. She was not a detective, not in the way the world understood the term, with badges and handcuffs and the sharp, metallic tang of adrenaline. She was an archivist, a...
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