The Golden Visit
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended grey curtain that smelled of wet iron and ancient stone, pressing against the single narrow window of the workshop where Aldous Vane sat with his back to the door, his hands trembling not from the chill that seeped through the oak floorboards but from the terrible, humming weight of the object in his palms. It was a mask, or...
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