The Golden Farce
The soot of 1893 did not merely coat the streets of Ironwood; it inhabited them, a dry, gritty powder that settled in the creases of Silas Vane’s face and turned the gaslight of his tenement into a sickly, jaundiced glow. It was in this suffocating atmosphere, on the rusted railing of his fire escape, that Silas first saw the wren, a bird of such improbable, polished gold that it seemed less...
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