The Golden Visit
The bone had been there for thirty years, a white shard of silence nestled in the marrow of Julian Vane’s left wrist, a splinter of glass from a shattered mirror that had refused to heal, refusing to dissolve, refusing to become part of the flesh it had pierced. He sat in the high-backed chair in the study of the old manor, the air thick with the scent of dried lavender and the damp, rotting...
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