The Golden Visit
The ink on the 1998 deed was still wet, or so it seemed in the mind’s eye, a smear of black against the yellowed paper that had no right to be there. "It’s a forgery, Elara," I said, sliding the document across the mahogany desk of Director Silas Vane. The office smelled of old dust and the sharp, chemical bite of the new carpet they had installed last month, a cheap vinyl that curled at the...
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