The Golden Master
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended grey mist that soaked into the wool of Arthur Penhaligon’s coat and settled deep into the marrow of his bones, creating a dampness that no fire could ever truly reach. He stood on the threshold of the white hall, which had no door, no windows, and no visible ceiling, only an expanse of pale, glowing stone that seemed to breathe...
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