The Golden Ritual
The bill was printed on heavy, cream-colored stock, the ink still wet and smelling faintly of iron. Elias Thorne held it under the workbench lamp, the paper trembling not from cold, but from the sheer weight of the numbers. Two thousand pounds. A sum that could buy a house in London, a farm in Kent, or, as the case stood, a lifetime of servitude in a town that smelled of wet wool and copper. He...
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