The Golden Farce
The letter lay on the workbench, its seal broken by your own trembling thumb, the ink of the Guild Master’s signature still wet and glossy under the single gaslight. You read it three times, the parchment rough against your calloused fingertips, the words simple and absolute: *Replace the Portland stone with the local limestone. The budget is fixed. Do not deviate.* You wanted the vaulted...
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