The Golden Scar
The banquet hall of the Ministry of Aesthetic Compliance was a cavern of polished mahogany and gaslight, the air thick with the scent of roasted pheasant, expensive wine, and the faint, metallic tang of the pneumatic tubes that carried our sins upward to the High Curators. I sat at the far end of the long table, my hands folded neatly upon the white linen, watching the liquid gold of the...
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