The Golden Farce
The ink on the parchment was not merely black but a deep, bruised violet that seemed to absorb the light from the high, arched windows of the Archive, a substance that had been mixed by hands long turned to dust, and it sat upon the desk of Silas Vane, a boy of fourteen who had not seen the sun in three days, waiting to be read. The air in the basement of the Grand Institute of Historical...
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