The Golden Myth
The dream always began with the heat, a searing, golden brand pressed into the meat of my right palm, followed by the smell of ozone and old paper. I woke in the blue half-light of my rooms in Bloomsbury, the sweat cooling on my skin, and immediately reached for the ledger I had brought home under my coat. It was a thick, leather-bound volume from the Society’s restricted annex, its spine...
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