The Golden Myth
The brass plaque on the door of the watchhouse had been polished so often by the rough palms of the men that the letters, once sharp and declarative, had worn into soft, indistinct bumps. Thomas Ashworth ran his thumb over the raised metal, feeling the history of the place in the warmth of the gold. It was a small town, Harrowgate, nestled in the hollow of the valley where the river bent like a...
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