The Golden Farce
The rain in Harrowgate did not fall so much as it was exhaled by the sky, a cold, persistent mist that clung to the limestone of St. Jude’s Cathedral and seeped into the joints of Elias Thorne’s coat. He was forty-two, a structural engineer by trade and a man in ruin by circumstance, and he stood before the heavy oak doors of the cathedral with a folder of legal documents pressed against his...
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