The Golden Suspect
The fire did not begin with a spark, but with a sigh. It was a long, drawn-out exhalation from the very foundations of the Institute, a sound like wind moving through dry reeds, and it was this noise that woke me. I was not sleeping, of course. One does not sleep in the halls of the Athenaeum when the air tastes of ozone and impending ruin. I lay on my back on the cold stone floor, staring up...
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