The Golden Quest
The air inside the subterranean vault of the Blackwood Institute for Archival Restoration did not smell of dust, as one might expect from a place where history went to die, but rather of ozone and the sharp, metallic tang of old blood, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a persistent lie. Arthur Penhaligon, a man whose hands were perpetually stained with the indigo and ochre of...
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