The Golden Suspect
The fire had not been a natural thing, nor had the ash that now coated the roof of the longhouse in a thick, grey silt that smelled of charred pine and old blood, and Alderman Vane stood in the center of the debris, his face a mask of soot and false grief, while the crowd behind him watched with the dull, heavy eyes of men who had already decided who was to blame and who was to pay the price...
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