The Golden Mirror
The bill was red ink on yellow paper, the numbers sharp as a scalpel. Fourteen shillings for a consultation that lasted three minutes. You held it up to the light of the kitchen window, the glass cold against your knuckles, and watched the soot from the coal stove settle on the tablecloth. Thomas sat in the corner, his back against the wall, coughing into a handkerchief that was already dark...
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