The Golden Mirror
The silver spoon lay on the mahogany desk, tarnished to a dull, bruised purple, and Elias Thorne stared at it as if it were a live viper coiled in the center of the room. It was 1912, and the air in the parlor of the late Arthur Thorne’s house—no, not his brother, a different Thorne, a name that had become a curse in the police records—sat heavy with the scent of coal smoke and formaldehyde....
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews