The Golden Maze
The mortar would not set. Elias Thorne, forty-five, a master mason with hands that had shaped the spires of three counties, stood in the ruins of Blackwood Abbey, staring at the wet gray paste that refused to harden. It was dawn, or what passed for dawn in the valley, a bruised purple light that did little to warm the stone. He needed the final arch completed by the sun’s full rise. He needed...
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