The Golden Harbor
The brass casing of the pocket watch was warm, almost feverish, in Elias Thorne’s palm, its surface etched with a fine, spiraling grain that seemed to shift under the gaslight. He held it up to the window of the library at Blackwood Hall, where the October gales were already stripping the leaves from the oak trees in a violent, rustling sheet, and watched the second hand sweep backward, a slow,...
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