The Golden Myth
The paper is thin, translucent at the edges where the fold has worn it to a gossamer thread, and in your hands it feels less like a document and more like a skin, peeled away from the bone of the house. You hold the ledger to the light of the oil lamp, the flame trembling in the draft that seeps under the door of the study, and the ink on the page is not black but a faint, sickly gold,...
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