The Golden Suspect
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended grey curtain that smelled of wet stone and old iron, while Thomas Bradshaw walked the muddy track with the heavy, deliberate pace of a man carrying a burden he had long since forgotten the name of. He was the Inquisitor’s hand, the seeker of the impossible, and in that role he had spent thirty years chasing shadows that had no...
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