The Golden Farce
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a grey curtain that blurred the edges of the world. Elias Thorne stood in the doorway of the crumbling stone house, his fingers white-knuckled around the hilt of a walking stick that had seen better centuries. He was fifty-two years old, a scholar of antiquities who had spent the last three decades hunched over brittle parchments, his spine...
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