The Golden Cellar
The train rattled. Metal on metal. A sharp, rhythmic violence. I sat by the window. Glass cold against my cheek. Outside, the Scottish Highlands blurred. Green turned to grey. Grey turned to night. I had a letter in my pocket. Heavy. Thick paper. Sealed with wax. Red wax. It felt like a stone. A heavy, warm stone. I was going to Cambridge. To the university. To the man who had made me....
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