The Golden Mirror
The autumn of 1893 settled over the Vane estate like a shroud, heavy and damp, seeping into the bones of the stone house and the spirit of the man who stood in the parlor, clutching a shard of gold leaf and broken glass. Arthur Vane, forty years old and stripped of his judicial robe, felt the jagged edge of the mirror bite into his palm, a sharp, red reminder that he was still flesh and blood,...
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