The Golden Mirror
The gold brooch sat in Elias Thorne’s palm, a heavy, yellow weight that seemed to drain the light from the gas lamp above us. It was a simple piece of work, a cluster of stylized leaves encasing a central stone, but the metal had a density that made it feel less like jewelry and more like a lead weight. I leaned across the scratched oak of the interrogation table, my knuckles whitening as I...
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