The Golden Ritual
The collapse of the ceiling in the east wing of the Whitmore estate did not happen with a roar, but with a sigh, a long, dusty exhalation that settled over Arthur Penhaligon like a shroud of gray wool, burying him beneath the weight of a history he had spent thirty years trying to catalog, preserve, and ultimately, submit to, in the way that all men of his station were expected to submit to the...
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