The Golden Mirror
The hand was cold. It hung from the iron chain in the center of the room. It had been there for three days. Marcus looked at it. He did not blink. The fingers were long and pale. The nails were black. They curled inward, gripping nothing. Or everything. "Look," said Father Thomas. His voice was dry. Like leaves skittering on stone. "Do you see the ring?" Marcus saw it. A gold band. Plain. No...
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