The Golden Harbor
The cellar of the Vane estate did not smell of history, but of wet rot and the metallic tang of old blood, a scent that seemed to seep up through the limestone floor and into the very marrow of Arthur Vane’s bones as he stood before the sealed vault, his fingers trembling around the cold brass key. The gaslight above flickered, casting long, distorted shadows that danced against the peeling...
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