The Golden Suspect
The chandeliers of the City Hall ballroom hung like cages of crystal, refracting the gaslight into a fractured, diamond-hard constellation that seemed to vibrate against the retina, a visual noise that Elias Thorne, the thirty-four-year-old archivist, endured with the stoic patience of a man who had long since learned that comfort was a luxury reserved for those who did not have to count the...
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