The Golden Ritual
The rain on the cobblestones of Highmarket Square was cold enough to make my teeth ache, but I hardly felt it because my mind was fixed on the door of the old chapel where Silas had told me the truth lay. I was twelve years old, small for my age, and I carried a leather satchel that contained nothing but a dead bird and a letter from my mother, written three weeks before she stopped speaking. I...
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