The Golden Oath
The third of October. I am standing on the platform at King’s Cross, the steam from the departing train blurring the face of the Minister who watches me from the shadows of the ticket hall, his smile a thin, papery thing that I know well enough to taste. I am thirty-two years old, and I have just resigned my position as senior archivist at the Ministry of Antiquities, a role I held for a...
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