The Golden Crossing
The vial in your hands is cold, colder than the iron railing of the pier, and it hums with a vibration that you feel in your teeth before you hear it. It is a small glass cylinder, stoppered with cork, containing a liquid that is not quite gold but has the weight and viscosity of molten metal. You have been standing here for three hours, watching the fog roll off the black water of the River...
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