The Golden Farce
The air in the basement of the Whitmore Antiquities Firm did not smell of dust, as one might expect of a place where history slept; it smelled of ozone, wet stone, and the sharp, metallic tang of high-voltage electricity that thrummed through the copper coils wrapped around the central plinth. It was a humid, stifling heat, the kind that settled in the lungs and made the heart beat in a slow,...
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