The Golden Cellar
The ledger was wrong, and I knew it before I even opened the book, the way a man knows a bone is broken before he touches it. I sat in the cellar of the Whitmore Estate, the air thick with the smell of damp wool and old varnish, my fingers tracing the grooves of the silverware inventory I had spent three weeks compiling. Above me, through the floorboards of the servants’ hall, I could hear the...
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