The Golden Maze
The invoice from the apothecary in Harrowgate lay on my desk, the ink still damp, the total circled in red: two hundred and forty pounds, a sum that exceeded my entire annual salary at Blackwood Ironworks by a factor of four. I stared at the figure, the numbers blurring slightly as the draft from the window rattled the loose panes, and I thought of my wife, Eleanor, whose lungs had finally...
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