The Golden Master
The fire did not begin with a spark, nor did it roar with the violent, consuming hunger of a wildfire, but instead it arrived with the quiet, terrible persistence of a fever, spreading through the timber of the old mill like a slow-acting poison that turned the grain to ash and the air to a thick, suffocating haze that hung heavy over the valley of the Blackwater River in the autumn of 1912, a...
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