The Golden Farce
You wake in a dream of gold leaf peeling from the ceiling of the library, the flakes drifting down like dry autumn leaves to settle on your open books. The air in the room is thick, heavy with the scent of old varnish and the metallic tang of the storm raging outside the window. You are Edward Ashworth, or at least, that is the name the house has given you for the last three decades. You are a...
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