The Golden Scar
The rag was soaked in vinegar and salt, a mixture that stung the raw skin of my forearm as I scrubbed at the gold leaf, trying to scour away the shimmer that had appeared only hours after my last lie. I was thirty-two, and the cellar of the Ashworth manor smelled of damp stone, rotting apples, and the metallic tang of my own fear. Above me, on the narrow wooden stairs, the Curator stood with...
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