The Golden Mirror
Thorne. The name hung in the thin air of the lodge, spoken by the constable with a flatness that felt like a slap. I was forty-two, a forensic linguist who had spent two decades decoding the syntax of crime, and I was sitting on a wooden crate, my hands shaking so badly I could not hold the pencil. The room smelled of wet wool and the acrid bite of woodsmoke. Outside, the wind scraped against...
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