The Golden Myth
The gold dust did not wash off. It sat in the whorls of Arthur Vane’s fingerprints, a fine, yellow silt that no amount of lye or scrubbing could lift. He held his hand up to the dim light of the kitchen, turning it over to inspect the stain, a permanent reminder of the debt that weighed on his shoulders more than the coal ever had. Outside, the rain hammered against the slate roof of the...
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