The Golden Mirror
The brass bottle was cold, slick with condensation that beaded and slid down the grooves of its neck. Arthur Vane held it in both hands, the glass biting into his palms, and stared at the letter in front of him. The date, November 14, 1904, was scrawled in the margin, a small, jagged scar on the paper. He was forty years old, a senior inspector with twelve years of service, and he was writing...
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