The Golden Song
The paper was damp, the ink of the ledger bleeding into a brown, rust-colored blur where the steam from the stove had kissed it, and I held it in my trembling hands as if it were a live coal that threatened to scorch the flesh of my palms. It was the autumn of 1912, and the air in the workshop of Elias Thorne & Sons was thick with the scent of lanolin and old wool, a heavy, cloying warmth that...
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