The Golden Suspect
The ink on the final page of my treatise was barely dry, a smear of black that looked less like pigment and more like a bruise, when I looked up to see Margaret standing in the doorway of the scriptorium, her silhouette framed by the grey light of the afternoon that had long since lost its warmth. I had been expecting her for three hours, sitting in the high-backed chair that was too large for...
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