The Golden Master
The carriage wheels ground against the cobblestones of Whitehall, a rhythmic grinding that seemed to grind down the last of the light outside my window. I stood before the full-length mirror in the nursery, the heavy velvet curtains drawn tight against the encroaching London fog. The glass was dark, reflecting not my face, but the faint, ghostly outline of my silhouette, a hollow shape standing...
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