The Golden Visit
The iron key was cold in Thomas’s palm, a slab of metal that bit into his flesh like a frostbite. He held it up to the grey light of the morning, turning it over to check the teeth against the lock of the Abbey gate, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts that misted in the damp air. The wood of the gate was black with age and rot, swollen shut, and the air around him smelled of wet earth and...
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