The Golden Mirror
Thorne. The name was called by the Dean, a sharp bark that cut through the clinking of crystal and the low hum of three hundred guests, and Elias Thorne turned from the punch bowl, his grip white-knuckled on a paper cup he had no intention of drinking from. He was fifty-eight, an archivist of the Special Collections, a man whose hands had begun to tremble with the subtle, persistent rhythm of...
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