The Golden Farce
The ledger on the desk held three hundred and twelve entries, each one a small, dry weight in the balance of Arthur Vane’s ruin. He counted them not with his eyes but with the tip of his finger, tracing the ink as it bled slightly into the cheap paper. The smell of the archive was thick, a mix of damp wool, old varnish, and the metallic tang of the heating pipes that groaned against the cold...
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