The Golden Crossing
The gold thread on the Crown of St. Jude does not catch the light; it absorbs it, a dense, metallic vein that pulses with a rhythm distinct from your own failing heart. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, and you are trying to keep your eyes open long enough to finish the catalogue entry before the autumn audit strips you of your tenure, but the obsidian case before you is a mirror that lies, for...
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