The Golden Circuit
The gold leaf is peeling, Margaret, and if you do not secure it before the spring gales, the Council will have your head. March 14, 1924 I am thirty-two years old and I smell the dust before I see the room. The archive at the Palace of Winds smells of foxing paper and old glue, a dry, brittle scent that coats the back of the throat like chalk. I am the head archivist, a title that Director...
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