The Golden Mirror
The boiler room of the Whitmore Steelworks exhaled a breath of sulfurous heat that coated the lungs of Arthur Penhaligon, a sensation not unlike swallowing a handful of wet, rusted sand. It was the winter of 1913, and the air in Pittsburgh hung heavy with the soot of industry, a gray veil that obscured the sun and turned the day into a perpetual, bruised twilight. Arthur stood before the...
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