The Golden Mirror
The letter lay on the table, its seal broken, the ink still faintly wet where the clerk’s thumb had pressed the wax. Elias Thorne read it twice, the words blurring as the cold from the window seeped into his bones, a chill that had nothing to do with the autumn wind rattling the sash. It was a notice of suspension, pending the authentication of the Bog Mirror, a task the senior curators had...
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