The Golden Ritual
The seal is dead, Thomas. Director Halloway did not look at me when he said it. He looked at the window, where the coal smoke from the yard hung low and grey against the pale sky. I held the wax stamp in my hand. It was warm from my grip. The gold leaf on the rim was flaking, just a little, like dry skin. It is obsolete, he said. A relic. I did not answer. My hands were shaking, but I kept them...
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