The Golden Ritual
The ledger shows four hundred and twelve shillings in arrears, a number that sits in my chest like a stone I cannot spit out. I have counted the coins in my tin box until the edges cut my fingers, but the arithmetic does not change; we are drowning, and the water is rising by the hour. I am writing this by the light of a single tallow stub, the flame guttering in the draft that screams through...
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