The Golden Circuit
The light in the undercroft was the color of old blood, thin and slanting through the single high window where the masons had left the glass unset. Elias Thorne sat on a block of rough-hewn limestone, his hands wrapped in linen that had long since darkened with sweat and something darker, and he watched the dust motes drift in the shaft of light. He was writing by the glow of a single tallow...
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