The Golden Myth
The carriage wheels groaned against the ancient cobblestones, a sound like dry bones snapping in the dark. You sit in the back, your spine rigid against the velvet, watching the fog roll off the Thames in thick, gray curtains. Your heart hammers a frantic rhythm against your ribs, a bird trapped in a cage of bone. You are going to the Abbey. You are going to see him. But you are not going to...
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