The Golden Mirror
The gas lamps in the basement of Blackwood Asylum hissed with a dry, brittle sound, consuming three pints of oil every six hours to keep the damp at bay. Arthur counted the seconds between the hiss and the next, a rhythm that matched the dripping of water from the cracked ceiling tiles, each drop striking the stone floor with the weight of a small, cold stone. He held the brass mirror in his...
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