The Golden Suspect
The air in the great hall of the Abbey of Saint Jude was thick with the scent of damp stone, beeswax, and the metallic tang of fear, a mixture that clung to the lungs of everyone present, including Aldous, the master glassblower, who stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his fingers stiff and white from the cold that seeped up through the flagstones despite the roaring hearth. The...
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