The Golden Farce
The gold was wrong, Elias Thorne said, turning the small ingot over in his palm, the light from the single hanging bulb casting long, sickly shadows across the workbench. It was not wrong, Mayor Halloway replied, his voice smooth as the varnish on the council chamber table, it is merely waiting for the right touch, a touch that you, sir, have demonstrated to be unshakable. Elias looked up, the...
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