The Golden Suspect
The mud on the road from London to Windsor had turned to a thick, sucking clay that seemed determined to swallow Elias Thorne whole, yet he walked with a grim, light-footed urgency that belied the thirty-two years of his age and the weight of the iron-bound satchel at his hip. Inside that satchel, wrapped in oilcloth that smelled of stale sweat and old parchment, lay the golden astrolabe, a...
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