The Golden Maze
One spool of gold thread. Two yards of linen. Three hundred and twelve stitches in the border of the harvest scene. Elias Thorne counted them aloud, his voice a dry rasp in the back of the cart, as the wheels ground over the rutted earth. The sun was high, bleaching the dust into a fine, choking powder that settled on his eyelashes. He was forty-two years old, and his hands were mapped with the...
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