The Golden Cellar
The coal dust in the lungs of the Vane boy had settled into a permanent, gritty film that coated the back of his throat and stained the whites of his eyes, a physical reminder of the twelve years he had spent breathing the black breath of the earth, yet on this particular morning in the autumn of 1912, Thomas Vane cared less for the soot than for the heavy, iron-bound ledger in the pocket of...
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