The Golden Crossing
The pour was late, and the metal was turning black at the edges. Thomas Vane stood before the furnace, his back hunched like a question mark that had lost its point. The air in the foundry smelled of wet iron and the sharp, ozone tang of the blue flame. It was a scent that clung to the wool of a coat long after one had left the building, a smell that meant work, meant debt, meant survival....
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