The Golden Crossing
The count of hours Elias Thorne had spent in the basement archive came to forty-two, a number he had tallied in a small ledger with a pencil that was worn down to the nub. The air in the sub-basement of the municipal library did not smell of dust, as one might expect of a place so deep beneath the streets of Harrowgate, but of damp wool and the sharp, metallic tang of old ink, a scent that had...
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