The Golden Mirror
The mirror was not a mirror, you told yourself, adjusting the calipers on the brass frame, but a lens, a convex array of ground glass and silver nitrate, a machine that had been built to focus light rather than reflect it. "It’s broken," you said, your voice flat, testing the air in the vaulted workshop where the fog seemed to press against the glass windows like a living thing. Mr. Vane,...
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