The Golden Mirror
The air in the shop hung thick with the scent of ozone and wet wool. It was a gray Tuesday, the kind that pressed its face against the windowpanes of the old textile mill on the corner of 4th and Main, waiting for a crack in the glass. Arthur Pemberton stood behind the counter, his hands trembling slightly. He was a man of sixty winters, his fingers stained indigo from decades of dyeing linen....
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