The Golden Circuit
The loom in the cellar had thirty-two heddles, and by the time the damp crept up the stone walls in November, Elara Vance had counted every one of them four times over, checking for the slack in the gold thread that ran through the center. She was thirty-two years old, and her hands, usually steady enough to inspect the weave of a heavy wool blanket for pilling and rot, trembled as she adjusted...
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